Valhalla
by Terra
Summary: For ten years, no one knew the identities of the Gundam pilots. When their names are revealed to an unforgiving postwar world, Quatre Winner must stand trial for war crimes while Dorothy Catalonia struggles to destroy him before he can be found guilty.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

Dorothy's portrayal in this chapter is inspired by and mirrors passages in The Fountainhead, a fantastic book for anyone who understands what it means to say "I."

SUMMARY: For ten years, the world debated the identities of the Gundam pilots, who left total destruction in their wake and began a revolution. When their names are revealed, the ensuing public uproar condemns Quatre Winner to stand trial for crimes against humanity and war crimes. The verdict will decide the fate of the five young men who once saved the world.

* * *

**Prologue**

by Terra

* * *

He shook a few hands without enthusiasm, his clasp firm and impersonal. His stiff collar grazed uncomfortably against the skin of his neck, a constant reminder of why he detested galas. Resisting the urge to loosen his bowtie, he met the gaze of a colleague leaning against the doorway, who smiled genially in acknowledgement. He nodded politely at her, an efficient tilt of his head which spoke of dismissal and of a more immediate purpose. Striding past her into an alcove, his eyes at once traced the focus of its occupants' attention and conversation. They came to rest on a young socialite perched with artificial majesty on an ornate divan which readily sacrificed function for form.

The smooth black silk of her gown draped loosely over her body as if afraid that intimacy would wrinkle her. The fabric's feeble struggle to absorb all the rays of light radiating towards it was an exercise in futility against the ostentatious sparkles encircling her hair, neck and wrists. If he only read her body language, he would have to conclude that she was inextricably fascinated by her companion's words, but her muted lavender blue eyes stared without seeing.

"I admit I asked for the introduction," her male companion confessed. "I have waited to meet you for a long time, Lady Catalonia."

"Viscount, don't say that I'm beautiful and lovely and like no one you've ever met before and that you're very afraid that you'll fall in love with me," said Dorothy Catalonia dismissively. "You'll say it eventually, but let's postpone it."

"W-well, I just wanted to say that I'm a consummate reader of your column and it's so very…" he hesitated at her bored expression. In the pregnant silence that followed, the viscount realized with a sickeningly lurch that he shouldn't have paused, should've said anything, continued with any descriptor rather than trail off into stunned muteness.

"So very…?" she urged gently.

"Perceptive," he finished in a rush of breath.

"Oh, yes," her eyes swept over him with a hint of amusement. "You're the senator's son. I'm sorry. You just happened to be the victim of one of my attacks of honesty. I don't have them often. My column today is a testament to that."

"What do you mean?" His features struggled vainly to appear less bewildered.

"Nothing that one should make a subject of discussion at a gala." Dorothy laughed gaily. "Now, I've made you uncomfortable. So I'll make up for it. I'll tell you what I think of you, because you'll be worrying about that. I think you're smart and safe and obvious and quite ambitious and you'll get away with it. And I like you."

The viscount fell silent and then asked hesitantly: "May I tell you only one thing that I think about you?"

"Certainly. Any number of them."

"I think it would have been better if you hadn't told me that you liked me. Then I would have had a better chance of its being true."

Dorothy rose fluidly from her seat, sparing him an affectionate glance one usually reserved for a sycophant who had said something genuinely flattering. "If you understand that, then we'll get along beautifully. Then it might even be true."

He noticed that Dorothy immediately walked towards him, deftly ignoring the crestfallen look on the dismissed suitor's face. He addressed her curtly, "Lady Catalonia."

"Mr. Chang Wufei," she answered him with cool delight. "I'd noticed you lurking earlier, too polite to interrupt, but perfectly content to eavesdrop."

"Why do you presume that it's you I want an audience with?" asked Wufei flatly.

The corners of her indifferent mouth quirked slightly in appreciation. "You do not consider that perhaps it is I who wish to speak with you."

"What about?" His unwavering voice belied the slightest piquing of curiosity.

"It's so unusual seeing you at a gala." Dorothy gestured at the cleverly concealed earpiece in his right ear. "Aren't you usually reserved for special operations?"

"Tonight, I'm part of the security detail."

She cocked her head slightly, her look suggesting that she found his comment inane. "In that case, I really can't, in good conscience, allow you to waste any more of your time entertaining me. Good evening, Mr. Chang."

His gaze followed the haughty swish of her curtain of white-gold strands of hair as she sauntered past him. "I'm surprised you even know the meaning of the word."

"You mean 'conscience'?" Her eyes widened in mock indignation. "You're breaking my heart. And I assure you, I do have one."

Wufei swallowed his next retort when he caught sight of a covert hand signal in his peripheral vision; it was time to switch principals, so that the constant presence of the same undercover bodyguard would not disrupt the otherwise relaxed, pleasant atmosphere._1_ Turning towards the gesturer, he glanced back one last time at Dorothy Catalonia and noticed with a feeling of uneasiness that the gray-blue eyes staring at him registered nothing.

She smiled effortlessly and elegantly shrugged one silk-lathered shoulder. "C'est la vie."_2_ Watching her retreating back, he wondered why her parting words sounded like an unspoken concession of mutual suffering. Much later that night as he embraced the leaden weight of sleep, Wufei would reflect once more upon the enigmatic woman who had graced him with a smile so empty it was almost beautiful in its execution.

* * *

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_1_The person whom a bodyguard protects.

_2_French for "Such is life." Literally: "It is the life."

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* * *

A/N- Valhalla in Norse mythology means "Hall of the Slain," an enormous hall in Asgard, the realm where Odin presides. It is where heroes who fall in battle and are chosen by Valkyries, the "choosers of the slain," reside to await a call to battle at the end of days. Thank you for reading!


	2. Birth & Binding: The Duchess

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

Notably, "Peter Keating" Weyridge and Dorothy "Dominique" Catalonia, are characters in The Fountainhead.

A/N- Intermittently, you may read a sentence and find that there's a number at the end of it. That refers to a footnote at the end of the chapter explaining a word, concept or context.

_This first arc of Valhalla consists of seven chapters and is entitled: Birth and Binding._

* * *

_Birth and Binding_ I:

**The Duchess**

by Terra

* * *

People turned to look at Dorothy Catalonia as she passed. Some remained staring after her with sudden resentment. They could give no reason for it. It was simply an instinct her presence awakened in most people. Dorothy Catalonia saw no one. For her, the galleries were empty. She could have walked there naked without concern. The first person she spoke to was her cousin.

Mariemaia Khushrenada stood with her back naked to the other patrons of the Brueghel exhibit._1_ She wore a backless cocktail dress, because she was not afraid of them. She was looking at _Landscape with the Fall of Icarus_ and she was alone. The painting disturbed observers, because it was simply done without one exorbitant brushstroke. Brueghel had painted a farmer, a sheepherder and fisherman proceeding about their day without pause while a man flailed in the sea, drowning. That man was Icarus, the archetypal literary figure of hubris punished, who had dared to fly too close to the sun on wax-welded wings. The sun melted those artificial wings, forsaking him and hurtling him into deadly icy waters. She wanted to touch the canvas, feel the unevenness of the oil paint and trace the cracks time had gifted the landscape.

"And that, dear cousin, is precisely why the museum is holomorphing all these paintings."

Mariemaia's hand froze, a mere breath from the canvas's undulated surface. She looked at her fingers curiously; she had not been aware of actually reaching out to touch the painting. "I don't care," she said, dropping her arm. "It's wrong."

"Yes, but only look at how happy all these vultures are," Dorothy swept her arm across the length of the gallery, "so eager to horde their little treasures to rot forever in obscure Swiss safe boxes."

The Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts had declared that all paintings made before the 18th century were in danger of suffering irreparable damage if they continued to exhibit them under harsh lights and open air._2 _They planned to introduce a new type of exhibit: the holomorphed painting, a hologram projecting the exact likeness of a painting as it had likely been when it was first completed, deleting forever cracks and discoloration. Hundreds of art connoisseurs were waiting anxiously for the bidding to begin on the real paintings the museum no longer needed nor wanted to keep and secure.

Mariemaia turned to face her cousin and asked: "Well, isn't that why you're here?"

"Me?" she answered, laughing with hollow humor. "I'm here for a purpose even less noble than that."

"Oh?"

"I'm here to steal what I can from the scavengers."

Mariemaia looked at her in surprise. "So you do want to buy a painting then?"

"What do you think of this one?" asked Dorothy, inclining her head towards the Brueghel piece.

"I think it's painful to look at: man's indifference to suffering. It's not the kind of painting you'd want to hang in your dining room."

"Do you think anyone else will buy it?"

"Oh, I'm sure someone will," replied Mariemaia tartly. "If for no other reason than to boast about owning a Brueghel."

"I think I want it then. You're right about the dining room. It'd frighten the guests. I'll hang it in my bedroom," said Dorothy, amused. Glancing at her diamond-studded wristwatch, she added: "Come, the bidding's about to begin."

-

Lord Peter Weyridge, denied the title of 'Earl' due to his birth as the youngest son of Marquis Weyridge, expressed his admiration for _Coronation of the Virgin_ by Rubens._3_ He stood before it for a correct number of minutes, sipping at his flute of champagne that tasted acrid and smelled too expensive. He counted down the seconds until he had to move on to the next archaic painting, mentally calculating the time when it would be permissible to leave. Then he stopped.

Beyond an obscure gated doorway, in a small atrium, with a younger red-haired girl, he saw Dorothy Catalonia. She stood leaning against a column, a cocktail glass in her hand. She wore a soft white, off-the-shoulder dress, cocooning herself within a fur wrap. Her platinum blond hair hung loose to below her waist, decorated only by a pristine, white headband. She was as coldly, untouchably beautiful as a marble statue.

Peter tore forward and found his father in the crowd. The Marquis stood immersed within a group of elderly gentlemen, sparing the occasional interested glance at the auction taking place a few feet away. He was a tall man, swathed in a severely tailored suit, which accented his height and concealed the unseemly weight he had gained in recent years. His father's crown of thinning white hair betrayed his age, but his posture remained ever stiff and official. Peter waited impatiently for his father to finish his conversation with an elderly woman he immediately identified as Lady Noventa.

Glancing around for something to occupy his time, his eyes found a Flemish landscape. Reading the placard, he saw that it was a painting by Pieter Brueghel. _The Fall of Icarus_. The thrashing figure in the water made him uncomfortable, only serving to heighten his anxiety. Finally, as he heard the polite pleasantries wind down, he cleared his throat loudly.

"Well, I'm surprised you're still here," said Marquis Weyridge, a slight catch in his voice belying his disapproval. "I see you haven't managed to make your escape yet."_4_

"Yes, well, it's turned out to be slightly less boring than I thought it would be." Peter casually steered his father away from his fellow aristocratic companions.

"I hope you haven't been expressing these sentiments to the other patrons, Peter." His father's rumbling voice held a warning.

"Of course not," Peter scoffed. "I've been a perfect gentleman."

"It's about time you acted more—" the Marquis cut off, noticing that they had stopped in full view of the atrium and that his son's eyes were fixed on the girl in white, inviting him to notice her.

Peter enjoyed having his father in a trap. The Marquis looked at his son, then at the atrium, then at his son again. "Well," said Marquis Weyridge at last, "don't blame me afterward. You've asked for it. Come on."

They entered the atrium together. Peter stopped an appropriate distance away while his father approached with considerably less enthusiasm and said: "Dorothy, my dear. May I present my youngest son, Lord Peter Keating Weyridge. Peter, this is Lady Dorothy Dominique Catalonia, the future Duchess Dermail."_5_

"How do you do," said Peter, his voice suddenly soft, his earlier insistent tone gone.

Dorothy bowed gravely and stated emphatically: "This will be interesting. You will want to be nice to me, of course, and yet that won't be diplomatic."

"What do you mean, Lady Catalonia?"

"Your father would prefer you to be horrible with me. Your father and I don't get along at all." Dorothy's eyes met Mariemaia's bemused expression. "Allow me to introduce my cousin, Lady Mariemaia Leia Barton-Khushrenada. Yes, she's Treize's daughter, if you didn't know."

"Oh, yes." Peter's eyes met the cornflower blue gaze of the younger girl for the first time since he'd noticed Dorothy. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise." Mariemaia bowed slightly, an understated echo of her cousin's own gesture earlier. "Marquis Weyridge, I believe I saw a van Dyck earlier that would be an invaluable addition to your extensive collection."_6_

The Marquis, looking relieved, held out his arm for her and said: "My dear, perhaps you would do me the great favor of showing it to me."

"Think nothing of it," said Mariemaia dismissively. Taking his offered arm, she continued, "Dorothy, I shall see you later, I'm sure." Bowing politely to bid Dorothy farewell, the Marquis allowed himself to be led into the gallery.

Dorothy nodded serenely in response and returned her full attention towards the young man who had sought her out. "I think it's only fair to tell you at the beginning. You may want to redraw some conclusions. Your father has never liked Duke Dermail and so, he has never liked me."

Peter suddenly wanted his father beside him, but he had already vanished. "I'm certain that can't be true. Besides, my father's disagreements with the Duke don't affect how I feel about you."

"Your father doesn't do these things well at all. He's too obvious. You asked him for the introduction, but he shouldn't have let me notice that. However, it's quite all right, since we both admit it. Sit down."

She slipped onto a severely carved marble bench and he sat down obediently beside her. Peter thought with relief that there wasn't anything frightening about her at all. Years ago, he had heard many disturbing rumors about her: her supposed involvement in the war and her purported defection to the White Fang. Looking at her now, at her pale, rosy skin, at her delicate countenance, at her exquisite beauty, he felt that there couldn't be any less truth to those rumors.

He smiled broadly and declared with more confidence than he felt: "I've been looking forward to meeting you for years. I admit that it's dastardly difficult to get an unstaged introduction."

"It looks as if your efforts have finally come to…fruition," said Dorothy, lingering on the last word. Setting down her cocktail glass, she peered at him under long pale eyelashes and asked, "Satisfy my curiosity. Why the eagerness to meet me?"

"Well, for one, people always seem to be talking about you. So I've wondered about you for quite a while," said Peter as warmly as he could manage. "And there's your column in _Society_. I read it with great pleasure."_7_

"Don't flatter me. You see, I'm most suspicious of yes-men."

"Surely, you wouldn't rather I criticize you?" asked Peter incredulously.

"I suppose I did ask for it. Well, then, let's speak of something else. Are you an art connoisseur or a dilettante?"

"When you put it in those terms, a dilettante, most certainly."

"I was thinking about bidding on a Brueghel. Have you seen his work?"

Peter thought furiously until his mind provided him with an image of a drowning man surrounded by oblivious countrymen. He congratulated himself for bothering to read the painting's placard. "Oh, yes. Earlier, I was looking at _The Fall of Icarus_."

"Is that so?" Dorothy looked momentarily pleased. "I was thinking about bidding on that very painting. Did you like it?"

"Very! I think it was awfully unexpected of him to incorporate such a tragic figure in an otherwise pleasing picture." Peter paused, suddenly remembering that this woman disapproved of flattery. "Although, I don't know where you'd want to keep it. It's too depressing to look at every day."

There was a short, uncomfortable silence before Dorothy laughed gaily. "Naturally, you're right. I just wanted to own it."

Suddenly, Peter felt an instinctive urge to flee, which he ruthlessly quelled. He did not like the sweet gaiety of her voice, but he forced himself to look into her mirth-filled eyes and at her dazzling smile. He said earnestly: "I'm terribly envious of you, you know. Your column is read by millions every day. It must be thrilling to have so many people hanging onto your every word."

Dorothy moved abruptly; she rose less than an inch from the bench before she was seated again. The entire motion may have lasted less than a second, less than the blink of an eye. Instead of running away, she moved closer and placed her hand lightly on Peter's arm. She told him, "I hadn't noticed."

If Peter had noticed his companion's violent struggle to stay near him, he showed no outward indication. Instead, his thoughts focused exclusively on the hand, her hand touching him. Suddenly lightheaded, he fumbled for something to say, settling for: "You've written just about every scandal. What's your favorite?"

"I don't care for scandals."

"Well, you know of course that I won't believe that. Why do you write if you have nothing you want to say?"

"To have something to do. Something more disgusting than many other things I could do. And more amusing."

"Now, Lady Dorothy – do you mind if I call you by your first name?" Dorothy silently assented with a nod. "That's not a good reason."

"I never have any good reasons."

"But you must be enjoying your work."

"I am. Don't you see that I am?" asked Dorothy as she relinquished her grip on his arm. She slipped her hand into his instead. "Look, let me help you. Everything you've said so far; it's all what I'd expect you to say and I don't like to hear what I expect. It would be much more interesting if you said that my column was a contemptible dump heap of yellow journalism."

He looked stricken. "Is that what you really think of your column?"

"Not at all. But I don't like people who try to say only what they think I think."

Peter looked amazed, his head pounding as blood rushed to his face. He tightened his grip on her hand, and after a long pause, said: "Well, then, you've left me with nothing to say. I've only the greatest admiration for you."

Dorothy no longer looked at him. She gazed back towards the gallery where people could be seen walking around, rotating among the groups, moving from person to person saying the same things, making the same gestures and laughing at the same jokes. "We should talk about people we know. What we've seen them do, buy, wear. For instance, you'll have noticed, of course, my cousin's rather daring cocktail dress at such a formal event."

"Daring, but still tasteful," declared Peter, suddenly desperate to recapture her attention. "Earlier, I saw the elder Lady Noventa. It seems that she was negotiating with my father. I know not what, though."

"Are you acquainted with the Lady Sylvia?"

"She and I are great friends," he said enthusiastically, leaning closer to Dorothy as if confiding a great secret. "I absolutely adore her. Do you know her?"

"Of course, I know her. She's wonderful. She's a woman I always enjoy talking to." Dorothy laughed lightly. "She's such a perfect sinner."

"Why, Lady Dorothy! You're the first person who's ever—"

"I'm not trying to shock you. I meant all of it. I admire her. She's so complete. You don't meet perfection often in this world one way or the other, do you? And she's just that. Sheer perfection in her own way. Everyone else is so unfinished, broken up into so many different pieces that don't fit together." Dorothy smiled piquantly at him. "But not Sylvia. Sometimes, when I feel bitter against the world, I find consolation in thinking that it's all right, that I'll be avenged, that the world will get what's coming to it, because there's Sylvia Noventa."

Peter had tried following her words, but not understanding anything of what she meant, blurted out bewilderingly: "What do you want to be avenged for?"

She looked at him then, her eyelids lifted for a moment, so that her eyes did not cut like crystal, but enveloped him like water, soft and clear. "That was very clever of you," she said. "That was the first clever thing you've said."

"Why?" asked Peter, dumbstruck.

"Because you knew what to pick out of all the rubbish I uttered. So I'll have to answer you," said Dorothy, her tone equal parts wry and mocking. "I'd like to be avenged for the fact that I have nothing to be avenged for. Now let's go on about Sylvia Noventa."

Peter briefly wondered if anyone would qualify her response as an answer. Struggling to sound informed, he couldn't stop himself from murmuring reverently: "Well, I've always thought of her as a sort of idealist, a saint, really, pure and incorruptible and so different from other politicians."

"That's quite true. A virus would be much safer. It makes no effort to disguise its lethal intent. But Sylvia is like a canary in a coal mine. You can learn about people by the way they react to her."

"Why? What do you actually mean?"

Abruptly, the sound of a bell rang out. She loosened her hand from his, and stretching her arms down to her knees, entwined the fingers of her two hands. And then, she was staring with too great an interest across the atrium towards the commencement of the next auction. Dorothy asked coyly, "What was it we were talking about, Lord Weyridge?"

"Why," said Peter hastily, "we were…"

"Oh, I do believe that the auction for the Brueghels is beginning. I must bid on my painting." Swiftly, Dorothy had stood up, moving across the atrium, her body leaning back fluidly as she walked, not fast enough to be insulting, but not slowly enough for Peter to reach her before she was through the doorway.

Disheartened, not knowing if he had succeeded or failed miserably with her, Peter reluctantly allowed the groups of people to swallow him and include him in their myriad gossip and small talk. Long after the auction had concluded and Lady Dorothy had acquired her painting for an outrageous amount of money, she stayed to mingle with friends and acquaintances. He kept staring furtively at her, hoping to catch her eye, but she steadfastly forgot his presence, not even sparing him an accidental glance.

He managed to make it to the entrance of the museum just as she was leaving. She stopped and smiled at him enchantingly: "No," she said before he had uttered a word. "You can't take me home. I have a car waiting for me. Thank you just the same."

Then she was gone; her cousin who he had just noticed standing beside them, gave him a sympathetic look, before following Lady Dorothy out of the door and it seemed, out of his life permanently. Peter felt a soft hand on his shoulder and turned to find his father beside him.

"Going, Peter? I've already called for my car."

"Oh, I've forgotten to call for a ride," said Peter stupidly. "Thanks."

Neither spoke until they were both seated comfortably in the roomy limousine with drinks in hand. There was a peculiar expression of purpose on Marquis Weyridge's face as he grudgingly admitted: "Peter, I was surprised. I watched you, and you spoke with her for quite a long time. I fully expected her to chase you away with some poisonous comment."

Peter looked at his father with tired bemusement. "Then why did you introduce me to her?"

"I thought that meeting her would be the best way to cure you of your fascination with her." Marquis Weyridge sighed heavily. "She's Duke Dermail's granddaughter and she's always been utterly unpredictable. I believe he used her as a spy during the Eve Wars and she was only fifteen at the time."

Peter interrupted impatiently: "You're exaggerating. What kind of a spy would a little girl make?"

"After he died, she disappeared, presumably to outer space, for months," continued his father, unheeded. "When she reappeared, no one knew where she'd gone or what she'd done."

"You're not saying that there's any truth to those rumors about her defecting?" asked Peter, suddenly less certain than he had been before of her innocence.

"I wouldn't underestimate her," said the Marquis defeated, "and I've long given up telling you what to do, Peter. I can only hope you'll be cautious."

Peter remembered the feel of her slender hand in his, about how right it had felt to hold her. "You've let her frighten you, and really, there's nothing to be afraid of," he pronounced emphatically. Then he leaned back against the cushions, as if he were tired, as if he had heard nothing of importance, and he remained silent for the rest of the drive.

* * *

-

_1_Pieter Brueghel was arguably the most famous Flemish Renaissance artist in the 16th century. He is most known for his landscapes and genre scenes.

_2_Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique or Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium is in Brussels, Belgium. Brussels is also the location of the headquarters of the ESUN government.

_3_The courtesy title of a Marquis's younger son is his father's subsidiary title. In this case, Marquis Weyridge's oldest son would be an 'earl,' while Peter, his youngest, is merely a 'lord.'

_4_For those readers who don't remember who Marquis Weyridge is, recall the episode with Relena Darlian when she tried to assassinate Lady Une. He's the old gentleman who defends her then and later lends her his support in the Romefeller Foundation.

_5_The duchy is an inherited title. However, Dorothy, who is unmarried, wouldn't ordinarily be a 'duchess.' Since she is the last remaining member of the Dermail bloodline and has quite the reputation for ignoring suitors, other peers often refer to her as a 'duchess,' although that is not her legal title.

_6_Anthony van Dyck was a Flemish artist famous in the 17th century for portraits of royalty.

_7__Society_ is a woman's magazine published primarily on Earth, but does have a small readership in Outer Space. Dorothy's column, in particular, is quite popular.

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* * *

A/N- Valhalla will consist of four arcs: Birth and Binding, Choosers of the Slain, Fimbulwinter and Ragnarök. In Norse mythology, there are three events that lead to Ragnarök, the "fate of the gods," also known as the battle at the end of the world and the beginning of the next. The first is the birth of three beings – Jörmungandr, the sea serpent; Fenrir, the wolf; and Hel, ruler of Helheim (Hell) – and the gods' subsequent attempts to confine them. Thank you for reading!


	3. Gestalt

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

If any of you have read The Fountainhead, then you should recognize who Quatre Raberba Winner and Layla al-Nahdiyah are, to an extent, based on.

_Gestalt means: a configuration or pattern of elements so unified as a whole that it cannot be described merely as a sum of its parts._

* * *

_Birth and Binding_ II:

**Gestalt**

by Terra

* * *

Layla bint Khalid ibn Fanan al-Nahdiyah was not the descendent of a noble bloodline._1_ She was neither wealthy nor destitute; she was not brilliant but quietly intelligent. She was not a great beauty, but no one who had ever looked at her remembered that. Layla was simply real. Real in a way countless tabloids had never succeeded in denying. If she had not been Quatre Raberba Winner's lover, she would simply have lived all of her life in relative obscurity, not feeling cheated in the least. She was the fulfillment of a dream little girls have been spoon-fed from infancy. She had succeeded in captivating a prince of the stars, who coincidentally was the wealthiest man in Outer Space.

The day Layla met the love of her life she had spent every credit she owned on a one-way spaceline ticket to the L4 cluster. Sitting in economy class, she was disappointed to discover that hers was an aisle seat, instead of the window seat she coveted. A blond man in his mid-twenties, by her estimation, occupied the other seat. He wore a snug pair of jeans and a nondescript blue polo shirt that eschewed fashion for comfort. He was leaning against the headrest, with his eyes closed, humming an unfinished concerto. For Layla, there were few pleasures she allowed herself; curling up with a good book in blessed silence was one of them. Especially today, she had counted on her novel to distract her from the shuttle's liftoff into space, hoping she might be so engrossed in the pages that she would forget her fear of flying. She meant to interrupt his humming, but instead found herself restrained by his expression of complete tranquility, as if nothing could disturb him.

She knew then that she would not disrupt his melody. She listened as he played the notes on an imaginary keyboard, composing as he whistled tunes of struggle lulling into triumph. He appeared the image of the artist mesmerized in the process of creation. When the man finished the last measure, he slowly opened his eyes and caught hers in his heated blue gaze. He asked, "Did you enjoy that?"

Layla, slightly embarrassed at being caught staring unabashedly, told him, "Oh, very much! Whom were you humming?"

His amused smile dazzled her breathless. "Me."

Surprised to discover a young virtuoso, she shyly introduced herself: "I'm Layla. And I'm very impressed."

"I'm Quatre. And I'm very pleased that you are."

The conversation that followed was a whirlwind of countless topics and Layla had noticed with a pleasant shock that the shuttle had taken off without her noticing. When the shuttle had docked onto the main L4 colony, nicknamed L4-AWINNER by its inhabitants, some seventeen hours later, Layla had disembarked trying to quell her disappointment at having to bid her new and, so far, only friend in space farewell._2_ The feeling quickly dissipated when she exited the spaceport and realized that she had finally achieved her dream of visiting a space colony. Days later, she would be stunned to discover upon installing her vidscreen and watching the news that the young man she'd met had been none other than Quatre Raberba Winner, the head of the Winner Foundation and CEO of Winner Enterprises Colonial. His family was the ruling party of L4 in all but name.

However, nothing could've prepared her to find him sitting in the lobby of her apartment complex a month later looking at her as if they had just seen each other only the day before. She had invited him in and over cheap generic-brand tea, they had listened to the recording he had brought of his completed piano concerto. He had entitled it, _Descent of the Valkyries_, and had dedicated it to her. In the days that followed, she had expected nothing and wanted nothing more than he had been willing to give. In the sometimes interminable absences that followed his visits, she had not called him, had made no effort to reach him unless he had initiated the contact. It had never occurred to her that he might have been ashamed of her or was simply using her as a cheap thrill. She did not demand his faithfulness nor did she beg him to escort her to fancy functions.

Layla simply allowed Quatre to live his life and expected that he would allow her the same liberty and that, she had realized some months later, was the whole secret of her power. She had never tried to use her influence over him as a means to some end. Other women would've worried that he might leave when he no longer found the experience novel, but Layla was simply too honest with herself to have those insecurities. She refused to avoid tabloid articles detailing his love affair with this supermodel or that actress. She saw her love for Quatre as almost independent of him; he did not need to be in love with her for her to love him. As long as he would come to see her from time to time, she wanted nothing else and never knew that it was this lack of need which gave her all the power in the relationship.

When he had introduced her to some of his sisters, Layla had known that some dynamic in their relationship had changed. With her now in the public eye, there were wild speculations on any given day of nuptials. Layla had only known Quatre for a year and harbored neither the hope to bind him nor the desire to be bound herself. _Then what_, she mused, _was she still doing here in Quatre's bedroom? _Ordinarily, she would've long departed for the small apartment she had refused to give up even when their relationship had become public. The quaint coffee shop across the street was her favorite place to curl up with her laptop and a mug of Earl Grey and while away the afternoon writing her column for _Society_.

She was the book reviewer for the woman's magazine, a position she had secured before the world became aware of her relationship with the Winner heir. Afterwards, numerous magazines and publishers solicited her, but she had adamantly refused to allow her personal life to color her professional one, even positively. The bathroom door abruptly swung open and Quatre walked out, clad only in a towel wrapped snugly around his waist. He looked mildly surprised to find her still sitting daydreaming on his bed.

"I have a meeting in an hour," he said casually, entering his walk-in closet. "There's no time for breakfast."

"I'm on my way out, anyway."

Quatre emerged in a severely tailored navy blue suit, adjusting his red-tinged tie. Layla hadn't even shifted her posture since he'd first turned on the shower. He said wryly: "No need to rush."

Layla inclined her chocolate brown eyes to meet his sharp blue ones. Tilting her head deep in thought, she replied, "I feel restless, somehow. I want…I think I want to travel."

"Any place in particular?"

"Well, there's this banquet for _Society_ writers in two weeks. It's being held in Sicily," she hesitated, "and I haven't visited Earth since I left."

Any words of encouragement or advice that may have been on the tip of Quatre's tongue were interrupted by a polite knock on the door and the words, "Master Quatre, your sister, Miss Fatima is on the line and wishes anxiously to speak with you," delivered in the dry, exact tones of his butler.

Quatre strode to the door, discreetly opening it only a crack to protect her privacy, and told her, "Being on Earth is not the same as sitting in your family's living room," before stepping through and shutting the door behind him softly but firmly.

Reflecting on these words of wisdom, Layla grimaced, recalling her traditional family's reaction to her chosen vocation as a writer and possibly, even a novelist one day. If she had not run away, she would have been disowned. Coming to a decision, she slipped out of bed and upon keying in the desired temperature on a touchpad, stepped under the jets of warm water. _I only have one fashionable gown, _she thought, startled, _do I have to go shopping?_

_- _

In the back of his limousine, Quatre Raberba Winner settled comfortably against the headrest before receiving his sister's call. Fatima bint Zayeed Winner's austere face lit the vidphone. Her chilly azure eyes immediately clashed with his softer turquoise gaze. Fatima's dark brown hair was pinned severely into a bun and she brushed impatiently at a few strands that had escaped. She was Quatre's oldest sister and she was the CEO of Winner Enterprises International on Earth. The latter role had always taken precedence to the former; blaming him for their father's death, she had never bothered to feign affection for him.

"What do you think you're doing hiring some little upstart to design Winner Tower on L1?" she accused bitingly. "What will our corporate shareholders think about handing the entire project to some novice with ridiculous notions of architecture?"

"I held a competition for the rights to design my tower and he won it," replied Quatre politely, as if he were speaking to a stranger.

"I've seen his model and it's ludicrously out of place."

"His design is revolutionary."

"His design stands out like some damn obelisk. Winner Tower is a place of business. It needs to conform to the buildings around it."

"He followed my specifications completely," he answered, as if he had not heard her. "Its form mirrors its function. I won't have it any other way."

"Don't be foolish," replied Fatima, dancing as closely to outright insult as she dared. "Now, the firm Francon & Heyer, they have the right idea."_3_

"You won't understand, but that last you've just uttered is a far greater insult to me than calling me foolish," said Quatre slowly, strained and precise. "I asked for a monument of enterprise, of human ingenuity and the design they submitted – their answer was offensive. Their model was undignified and unremarkable. They're so far gone, they gave me forgettable, mediocre clones when they should've seized this opportunity to build—" His voice broke when he caught his sister's livid expression.

"Y-you, why do you think you're so goddamn superior? What right have you to build something like that?" Her breath hitched as she fought to control her anger. "You have to listen – listen to other people, to the shareholders! What makes you think you know best?"

"I don't," he said, his brow creased in mild frustration, "but I know what I want."

If anything, Fatima looked even more outraged at his admission. Then she smiled bitterly and said: "I heard a rumor that the architect is a friend of yours. I can't believe you would be so selfish as to jeopardize our family's – our father's – legacy."

"You're right and wrong. Heero Yuy is one of my closest friends, but I didn't choose his design, because of that." Quatre's tone was resolute but patient as he reached for his briefcase and retrieved his laptop, a silent gesture of dismissal. "I'm sorry we don't see eye to eye on this. But I chose his design, because he came nearest to getting it right."

Her thin lips pursed severely as she bit back a seething retort. "This conversation isn't over, but I'm too busy right now to save you from making yet another catastrophic mistake." She terminated the connection.

Fatima thought that his love affair with Layla was a dangerous mistake. Quatre knew that she couldn't conceive of a woman who didn't hope to gain from her association with him. Fatima was stolidly blind to any attractive quality in him and could not fathom Layla's desire for his presence. But Quatre knew that even if he were a starving artist, Layla would feel no differently. He had met her a year ago en route from Earth and had found her homely and genuine on that first meeting, with a lovely smile. Of the countless women he had known, she was the only one whom he had ever played his music for. He could have any woman he met and he knew it; he knew that he could have Layla; he wanted her; she loved him and had admitted it simply, openly, without fear or shyness, asking nothing of him, expecting nothing; somehow, he had never stopped being astonished by her.

When his responsibilities would become overwhelming, he forgot Layla for weeks at a time and she never reminded him. He had always come back to her, suddenly, inexplicably. His visits were unpredictable and the absences long, but because she always welcomed him back as if he had just left, it seemed as if she was a constant presence in his life. In those moments, he had felt at peace. Inevitably, on those nights, he would dream of suffocating sandstorms, mechanical whispers and a clammy feeling of relief at discovering that he had survived another battlefield. Quatre didn't know if he stayed with Layla to run away from the fighting of his past or to punish himself for the loss. She anchored him to the present and made no demands for a future. That was all he could give. The reality of his life was the helm of an interspatial corporation, the hopes and dreams of his family and the irrepressible memory of bloodbaths.

Quatre imagined that if hell existed, he would be drowned in the metallic taste of blood in the afterlife. He had been raised religious – a devout Muslim. That was before he had taken up arms, before he had met Instructor H, before the Maganac Corps. Now, he could not comprehend of a benevolent, active deity who had allowed so much suffering. Islam – literally one's submission to God – at present held no place in his life._4_ He no longer recalled how to prostrate himself, how to grovel for forgiveness. He would readily sacrifice his humanity, his soul to protect others; it was more than he could say for Allah. Most of his sisters rejected his views passionately and Quatre respected their mutual agreement to disagree. But he no longer spent torturous, sleepless nights over what he had no power to change. Only three values had given him the key to escape the dangerous nightmares of carnage that had threatened to smother him as he aged: reason, purpose and self-esteem._5_ He could now conceive of no other principles to live by.

Quatre absently examined the list of news articles on the internet, falling into a well-worn morning routine of chasing the ever-changing world. As he tentatively tasted his still-steaming Turkish coffee, his eyes hovered upon an article published in the Earth edition of _Society_, a magazine he vaguely recalled Fatima having once forced upon him to educate him on the views of women in his social class. Since Layla wrote book reviews in the colonial edition of _Society_, he had developed a habit of scrolling through its pages, but he had never been impressed enough to take up readership of its counterpart publication. He scanned the editorials, a counterpoint piece in which two columnists idly discussed the various achievements of his life.

He did not accord the author any distinction as he adeptly speed-read: _The only male heir to an estate King Midas would have coveted… richest test tube baby in the solar system… attended the best academies on L4… rebelled against devout Islamic roots… Winner family runs the resource mining empire single-handedly… sheltered by his father during the worst conflicts of the Eve Wars… devastated when his only living parent died, a victim of an uprising… finished construction of L3-X18999 after the Mariemaia Incident… invested heavily in the terraformation of Mars… at age 25, he is most eligible bachelor in Outer Space no more… in a true rags-to-riches story, Quatre Winner plans to wed commoner Layla al-Nadiah… Winner Legacy is in the safe, capable hands of the man with the Midas touch._

Quatre casually disregarded his "plans to wed" and amused himself with the misspelling of Layla's last name, who was a _Society _staff member. Unimpressed, he almost bypassed its companion piece when the name – Dorothy Dominique Catalonia – involuntarily dragged his eyes back to the screen. He laughed dryly. It was fitting that he felt no astonishment. Writing for a frivolous woman's magazine was exactly the sort of punishment he would expect Dorothy to inflict on herself. Mildly curious of what his once-enemy, once-something more, thought of him, he read her weekly syndicated column, entitled: _One Small Voice_._6_ Dorothy had written:

"…And there Winner Tower will stand, as an obelisk to nothing but the egotism of Mr. Winner. It will stand, much like the man himself, between stock skyscrapers and obtuse warehouses. This, perhaps, is not an accident, but a testament of fate's sense of humor. No other setting could bring out so eloquently the essential insolence of this building and of its patron. It will rise as a mockery to all the structures of the city and to the men who built and condescend to live in them. Our structures are meaningless and false; this building will make them more so. But the contrast will not be to its advantage. By creating the contrast, it will have made itself a ray of light falling into a pigsty. It is the ray that shows us the muck and it is the ray that is offensive, much as is Mr. Winner with his 'superior' capitalism and claim to humanity. Our structures, much like ourselves, have the great advantage of obscurity and humility. Winner Tower is shameless and proud. It will attract attention, but only to the immense audacity of Mr. Winner's conceit. When this building is erected, it will be an abomination on the face of L1 and the derision of Outer Space."

The car screeched to a stop and the driver opened the door to find his employer laughing, openly and so honestly, it sounded much brighter than his usual deep tones. Quatre suddenly understood his sister's vehement opposition to his project on L1. As he nodded graciously at his driver, exiting the vehicle, he realized pleasantly that he had never received a more flattering compliment. He had not reflected on Dorothy in years, but he was not astonished by the things she had written and the thoughts behind her words. _Dorothy Catalonia_, he thought, surprised at the extent of his relief, _is still the same woman._ And then: _as I am the same man._

_- _

Chang Wufei shrugged on his Preventer jacket and stepped through the sliding doors of the Winner Group Building in one controlled motion. He was on his way to the top floor, to Quatre Winner's office. His eyes alert from years of enforced habit and his stride steady, he rode up in the mirror-plated elevator, glancing absently at the details – the capacity of the contraption, the location of the emergency phone, the escape hatch – as the other passengers compulsively smoothed wrinkles and fixed cosmetic blunders in the condemning presence of their reflections. There had been a security breach and Quatre was on a very short list of those who needed to be briefed.

Wufei walked into a spacious office area enclosed off by tinted glass into cubicles where the majority of the administration for the corporation resided. He approached the most imposing desk, occupied by a young brunette woman who was simultaneously answering calls, penning messages and nibbling on pita bread dipped in what smelled faintly like olive oil._7_ Wufei interrupted her well-organized movements, briefly relating to the Winner heir's secretary the urgent nature of his business, sensing correctly her predilection for efficiency. She politely, but firmly informed him that Mr. Winner was in the middle of an important teleconference. He stared her down for a few seconds before presenting his badge and credentials and calmly demanding an audience, citing the all-purpose access word – security. Quatre's secretary, with a measured degree of disdain, slowly reached for her vidphone and made an exaggerated gesture of paging him. She told her employer: "There's a Preventer agent here to see you, sir. He insists that he cannot wait."

Quatre's reply was seamless and casual: "I'll see him."

Wufei noted that the man he met through the reinforced tinted glass doors looked only faintly surprised to see him. He admitted grudgingly: "Your secretary is very protective of your time."

"That she is," Quatre stood to greet him. He did not ask, but stated, "This is not a social call." Sensing rather than seeing Wufei's nod, he entered a code on the keypad under his desk, activating the voice privacy machine embedded within the office. Quatre could easily afford the cutting edge in security technology and considered it a necessary expenditure; no one would eavesdrop on this conversation.

"No," the Preventer affirmed. "There was a security breach at headquarters two hours ago. Classified files were stolen and a virus was released to wreak havoc on our systems to cover the hacker's trail."

"What were in the files?"

"Mainly intelligence gathered by OZ during the Eve Wars."_8_ Pausing, Wufei revealed his first hint of discomfort, his mouth drawing into a mild grimace. "Quatre, those files contained general schematics of the Gundams…along with our identities."

Quatre's brow creased as he roughly mentally projected the fallout from releasing those files to the public. He needed more data for his calculations. He asked, "Are we being held hostage? Is there a ransom? Or is this the work of a fanatic?"

"We're still tracing the hack. We had to completely reboot the mainframe from a restore point. Of course, we have a press blackout over this, but if the bastards plan on going public…" he trailed off, leaving the last part unsaid.

"Whom do we suspect?"

"This breach has forced our hand in a number of operations. We've had to dismantle a few terrorist cells prematurely. We're investigating Romefeller as a matter of course," said Wufei softly, dangerously. "I feel uneasy. It's too well-planned to be the work of amateurs."

"If you suspect disgruntled aristocracy in Romefeller," Quatre's hand bridged the short distance to his console, keying in the commands to retrieve confidential files, "I've conducted extensive background checks into many of my more dubious business partners on Earth."

"We'd appreciate whatever you can forward to us. We're running on a tight schedule. We may have anywhere from 48 hours to several weeks to rectify the situation."

"Have you contacted the Foreign Minister's office? Relena may be instrumental to controlling the fallout, if it comes to that."

"Sally's briefing her as we speak. But the Preventers consider her our last resort."

"Do the others know yet?" There was no need to specify 'others.'

"I have no doubt Yuy knew moments after it happened. That means Maxwell will already have been informed. Barton is my next stop."

"Then I shouldn't delay you any longer." Quatre handed his former comrade a disc with the encrypted files. He advised: "If you're looking for another Romefeller insider, you may want to consider Dorothy Catalonia."

Wufei placed the disc in the hidden folds of his jacket's inner pocket. His reply was curt: "I saw her a few days ago at the Presidential Gala. I don't trust that woman. She has no loyalties." Before turning around, Wufei's dark chestnut eyes conveyed a brief warning and his departing nod communicated caution. Then he was en route to his next destination.

Quatre sat deep in thought in his leather swivel chair for a long time thereafter, gazing through his vacuous windows at the deceptive artificial atmosphere sequestered by the colony's metallic shell.

* * *

-

_1_Layla, "daughter of Khalid, who is son of Fanan," al-Nadiyah. Arabic names contains many parts, including patronymics and descriptions, such as "son of…" and "righteous."

_2_The original settlers of the L4 colony cluster originated from Arab nations. The Winners, one of the oldest and most renowned families, helped to fund the first colony in this cluster. Colony nomenclature begins with L#, depending on the Lagrange point, followed by the first English letter of its founding nation or continent. Lastly, the number of the colony is designated. The oldest colony of the L4 cluster is named L4-A946637, but nicknamed AWINNER by its residents and neighbors.

_3_The most prestigious architecture firm in Outer Space; it is very closely affiliated with the Devolution movement in architecture, which eschews contemporary techniques to embrace the Classics. (inspired by a firm that exists in the The Fountainhead)

_4_I mean no offense against any Muslims or against the religion or anyone who is religious. Quatre's views here are not representative of my own. As a character, and survivor of war, he is disillusioned with his previous faith, or any faith for that matter.

_5_Ayn Rand's philosophy of objectivism embraces three core values: reason, purpose and self-esteem. In another of her novels, Atlas Shrugged, one of her protagonists lives by these principles and they are, for her, the highest virtues.

_6_A weekly syndicated column penned by Dorothy Dominique Catalonia about the latest trends, scandals and gossip. (inspired by a column written in The Fountainhead)

_7_A popular Middle Eastern breakfast, also served with labneh – a type of creamy curd – and za'atar (common spice mix).

_8_OZ, under Lady Une's command, had identified all five of the Gundam pilots and even held them in captivity. During the Eve Wars, their Gundams were also captured and analyzed by some of OZ's best scientists, including Chief Engineer Tsuberov. This information was not discarded when OZ disbanded and the Preventers were formed. There is no indication that the general populace has ever been made aware of the Gundam pilots' identities. The Alliance and OZ acted primarily in secret, leaking intelligence to the media only when it suited their purposes. In the post-war After Colony era, the world is largely democratically governed and the media once again serves a watchdog function.

-

* * *

A/N- For clarification purposes, I do use footnotes, so if you're reading a sentence and there's an italicized number at the end, scrolling to the bottom to the corresponding one will probably elucidate the word, sentence or idea. Thank you for reading!


	4. A Perfect Sinner

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

Many kudos to Ayn Rand and even more kudos to those of you who've read it and will recognize exactly who Sylvia Noventa and André Seward represent.

_In chapter one, Dorothy tells Peter Weyridge that she considers Sylvia Noventa to be "a perfect sinner."_

* * *

_Birth and Binding_ III:

**A Perfect Sinner**

by Terra

* * *

_Society_ was the rare woman's publication which crossed gender aisles and had an enviable number of male subscribers. André Seward liked to attribute its widespread appeal to his being editor-in-chief. As far as he knew, he was the only male editor-in-chief in the woman's magazine world. He was approaching his fiftieth year, was a bachelor, had made millions and was known to have an eye for talent. It was his decision to hire wealthy heiress Dorothy Catalonia. He thought she might be bored.

It was also André Seward who conceived the idea of a campaign against living conditions in housing projects. He was inspired immediately after a fire in Brussels' most lauded projects burned an entire city block to the ground before firefighters could contain it, killing hundreds. International scrutiny compelled the headquarters of the Earth Sphere Unified Nation to renew their war against poverty. This was material André Seward relished. It had human appeal and social implications. Most importantly, it lent itself to splashing endless pages with photographs of appropriately contrite politicians and touched up ones of sympathetic socialites and celebrities, who lavished money at the hastily created Humane Housing Fund._1_

It embarrassed the landowners who owned a stretch of blocks that ran parallel to the projects across a wide boulevard and many empty lots, but were as luxuriously maintained as the slums were steadfastly ignored. These landowners – who were secretly glad that the projects could no longer fester like a wound upon their city – had refused to sell these blocks to an obscure real-estate company; at the end of the campaign they surrendered and sold. No one could prove that the real-estate company was owned by a company owned by _Society_'s mother company. André Seward assigned Dorothy Catalonia to investigate the condition of homes in the slums and to gather human material. She had been in Brussels during the Poor Man's Fire, as several news agencies were apt to nickname it, and had requested it. André Seward granted it, because she was one of his favorite employees, because he was baffled by her and because he knew that she could quit her job whenever she pleased.

Dorothy Catalonia went to live for two weeks in the hall bedroom of a sister housing project on the East side. The room had a skylight, but no windows; there were five flights of stairs to climb, a permanently malfunctioning elevator and sometimes no running water. She cooked her own meals in the kitchen of a numerous family on the floor below; she visited neighbors, she sat on the landings of fire escapes in the evenings and went to the movies with the girls of the neighborhood. She wore secondhand jeans and sweatshirts. She scrubbed the floor of her room, she sliced onions, she washed dishes. She had never done these things before; she did them expertly. She did not mind this new background; she was indifferent to the slums as she had been indifferent to the galas.

At the end of two weeks, she returned to her penthouse apartment on the roof of the Conrad Brussels Hotel overlooking Avenue Louise and her articles on life in the housing projects appeared in _Society_._2_ They were a merciless, brilliant account. In the many dinner parties, drawing room cocktail gatherings and other social functions, Dorothy heard baffled questions: "My dear, you didn't actually write those things?" "Dorothy, you didn't really live in that place?" "Oh, yes," she answered. "The houses in your husband's jurisdiction, Lady van de Velde," she said, her manicured fingernail tapping lazily against a diamond bracelet too broad and heavy for her thin wrist, "have a sewer that gets clogged every other day and runs over, all through the courtyard. It inconveniences a great number of your husband's constituency, but of course, you needn't concern yourself; they won't vote."

She was invited to speak at a meeting of social workers. It was an important convention, with a militant, radical mood, led by some of the most prominent women in the field. André Seward was pleased and gave her his blessing. "Go to it, darling," he said, "charm them. We want progressive women to read us." She stood in the reception hall and looked at the faces lecherously eager with the sense of their own virtue. She spoke evenly, without inflection. She said, among many other things: "The families on the first floor cannot usually pay their rent, and the children cannot go to school, because they must work. The couple on the second floor has just purchased a refurbished vidphone for fifteen credits. On the third floor are the fathers of families who have not done a whole day's work in their life, and do not intend to. The fourth floor is a makeshift orphanage supported by the local parish. They have a new addition today…" When she finished there was a thundering applause. She raised her hand and said: "You don't have to applaud. I don't expect it." She asked politely: "Are there any questions?" There were no questions.

When she returned to her penthouse, she found André Seward waiting for her. He clashed decadently with her drawing room. His bulky figure swelled further when overshadowing the thin metallic spires of her Neo-French decor. His heavy face bore the benevolent, paternal smile that had always been his passkey and his trademark. He rose, beamed and held Dorothy's hand, and said, "Thought I'd drop in on my way home. I've something to tell you. How did it go, darling?"

"As I expected it."

She shrugged out of his hands' embrace carelessly and walked to the window and stood looking out over the city. She asked without turning: "What did you want to tell me?"

André Seward watched her pleasurably. He had long since given up any attempts beyond holding her hand when not necessary or patting her shoulder. He told her, jovial: "I've fabulous news for you, dear. I'm restructuring the departments and I want you to be editor of Women's Welfare. You know," he continued, gesturing meanderingly at her turned back. "Schools, housekeeping, care of children and all the rest of it – all to be under one head. And I see no better woman for the job than my little girl."

Dorothy turned and looked at him, grey-blue eyes angled to pierce his own duller green, and said: "Thank you, André. But I don't want it."

"What do you mean, you don't want it?"

"I mean that I don't want it."

"For heaven's sake, do you realize what an advance that would be?"

"Toward what?"

"Your career. You'll be editor of an entire department. You'd only answer to me."

"I never said I was planning a career."

"But you don't want to be running a back-page column forever!"

"Not forever. Until I get bored with it."

"But, Dorothy, we need you. The women will be for you solid after tonight. We need their readership."

"I don't think so."

"Why, I've ordered two columns for the meeting and your speech."

Dorothy reached for the vidphone and handed the headset to him. She smiled humorlessly. "You'd better tell them to kill it."

"Why?"

She reached into the pocket of her tailored pant suit and removed her handheld, scrolled to the appropriate screen and handed it to him. "Here's the speech I made tonight."

André glanced through it. He said nothing, but clasped his forehead once, ignoring her offered headset, and seized his cell phone, dialing the editorials department, and briskly barked orders to run as brief an account of the meeting as possible, and not to mention the speaker by name.

"All right," asked Dorothy when he gave her a painstakingly bewildered look. "Am I fired?"

He shook his head glumly. "Do you want to be?"

"Not necessarily."

"Listen, Dorothy – I know you never answer any of my questions, but just this once – why are you always sabotaging yourself? You've done it before. You go along so beautifully, you do brilliant work and just when you're about to advance, you spoil it by pulling something like this. Why?"

"Perhaps that is precisely why."

"Will you tell me – as a friend, because I like you – what you're really after?"

Dorothy laughed lightly and infectiously. "I should think that's obvious. I'm after nothing at all."

André knew his expression betrayed his helplessness to respond to this statement. She walked past him, her words flowing behind her in a liquid tone of humor: "What is there to look so mournful about? I like you, too, André. I even like to talk to you, which is better. Now sit still and relax and I'll get you a drink. You need a drink, André."

As she handed him a glass of cava with one hand, her other offered him the entire bottle._3_ She sat down on the edge of a table, her hands clenched the sides in balance, while she leaned back, suspended in the air, her feet off the ground. She said slowly: "You know, André, it would be terrible if I had a job I really wanted."

"Of all the ridiculous—! Whatever do you mean?"

"Just that. That it would be terrible to have a job I enjoyed and did not want to lose."

"Why?"

"Because I would have to depend on you." Dorothy smiled indulgingly. "It's not just you alone. If I found a job, a project, an idea or a person I wanted, I'd have to depend on the whole world. Everything is connected to everything else. You want a thing and it's precious to you, but you can't know who's standing ready to tear it out of your hands. It may be someone close or far away, but someone is ready, and you're afraid of them all. And you cringe and you crawl and you beg and you accept them, just so they'll let you keep it. And look at whom you come to accept."

"If you're criticizing mankind in general…"

"You know, it's such a peculiar thing – our idea of mankind in general. We all have this vague, glowing picture when we say that, something solemn, big and important. But actually all we know of it is the people we meet in our lifetime. Do you know any you'd feel big and solemn about?" She swayed, perched on the edge of the desk, as if she wanted to fall, but did not want gravity to be responsible. "During the Eve War, did you ever meet anyone who made you proud to be part of mankind? If anything, we'd rather drag our heroes down to our level than acknowledge their greatness. Because we're all despicable like that."

"But hell! That's not the way to look at it," exclaimed André, gesticulating wildly as if the violence of his actions would lend credence to his statement. "There's some good in the worst of us. There's always a redeeming feature."

"So much the worse. Is it an inspiring sight to see a man commit a heroic gesture, and then learn that he spends his time sleeping with every slut he meets?"

"What do you want? Perfection?"

"Or nothing. So, you see, I take the nothing."

"That doesn't make sense."

"I take the only desire one can really permit oneself. Freedom, André, freedom."

"You call that freedom?"

"To ask nothing. To expect nothing. To depend on nothing."

"What if you found something you wanted?"

"I won't find it. I won't choose to see it. It would be part of that lovely world of yours. I'd have to share it with all the rest of you – and I wouldn't. You know, I never open again any great book I've read and loved. It hurts me to think of all the other eyes that have read it and of what they were. Things like that can't be shared. Not with people like that."

"Dorothy, it's abnormal to feel so strongly about…" he stopped abruptly. He wasn't sure what he meant to say, but knew only that he understood her to mean she hated all of mankind, but that that couldn't be true, because she was beautiful and privileged and had everything those attributes conveyed on its owner. He did not want to admit that he was intimidated by this girl-woman who had barely lived for half as long as he had.

"That's the only way I can feel. Or not at all."

"Dorothy, my dear," he said with earnest, sincere concern. "I wish I'd been your father. What kind of tragedy did you have in your childhood?"

"Oh, André." Dorothy released her grip on the desk and her heeled feet collided soundlessly against the ground. She tilted her hand to clasp his right cheek. She said: "It's nice talking to you about such things. Do you know that primitive people made statues of their gods in man's likeness?"

"What's that in relation to?"

"To nothing at all, darling. Forgive me." She added: "You know, I loved statues of naked men as a child. Don't protest. I said statues. I had one in particular. It was supposed to be Helios. I bought it from a museum in Europe. I had a terrible time getting it – it wasn't on sale, of course. I think I was in love with it, André. I brought it home with me."

"Where is it? I'd like to see something you like, for a change." He could no longer bear the touch of her cool palm and was glad for the excuse to dart his head around the drawing room as if she might've hidden it in some obscure corner.

"It's broken."

"Broken? A museum piece? How did that happen?"

"I broke it."

"How?"

"The day my father died, I threw it down an air shaft. It shattered on the concrete floor below."

Here, André looked startled. Then he smiled widely, having been vindicated by the news of her father's death, and said soothingly: "Death in the family does tend to traumatize us."

Dorothy jerked her head, as if to shake off the subject. She had not been aware of her confession. She continued, ignoring him: "I broke it so that no one else would ever see it."

"Dorothy! Not that again."

"I'm sorry, darling. I didn't want to shock you," she said, the blue in her eyes bathing him in grey indifference in the lamplight. "Run on home, André. It's getting late. I'm tired. See you tomorrow."

-

Peter Weyridge would not admit that he had tried to see Dorothy again, persistently and without results. He had obtained her vidphone number from his father long ago, and he had called her often. She had answered, and laughed gaily, and told him that, of course, she would see him since she knew she wouldn't be able to escape it. She asked him to try her again at the end of the week. When he had, she'd asked: "Will you take me to the theater tonight, Peter? I don't care what play, any one of them will do."

Looking at her beauty on his vidphone screen, at the shape of her mouth, the movements of her lips framing words and the way she flexed her fingers, a gesture smooth and exact, like an expensive instrument being unfolded, he knew that he disliked her violently. He told her, "I'd say that I'm delighted, but I know better."

"Why should you know better?"

"Because you have no desire to go to a theater or to see me tonight."

"None whatever. I'm beginning to like you, Peter. Call for me at half past seven."

He was meeting Dorothy frequently now. He had just returned from an evening spent with her at a jazz club. He abhorred the raspy notes of a saxophone, but he wanted to impress her and so he had studied the subject and swore he was born listening to jazz. Dorothy had smiled beautifully at him, the look in her eyes telling him that she knew he hadn't the slightest genuine interest in it. Yet, she always accepted his invitations. He wondered if her attitude stemmed from the fact that she could ignore him more completely by seeing him often than by refusing to see him. But each time he met her, he planned eagerly for the next meeting, because he knew his presence was unwanted and he clung to the belief that if he persisted, he could affect her somehow, hurt that beautiful face and see the acknowledgement in her features that it had been he who had done it.

Peter Weyridge was not conscious of these thoughts.

-

Dorothy had returned to work for a few days when Sylvia Noventa walked into her office. "Hello, Dorothy," she said. "Just read your articles on the plight of the housing project poor. I thought I'd stop by on my way to André's office."

"Hello, Sylvia."

"That's all? You're not curious about why I'm here?"

"I felt confident that you'd tell me anyway," said Dorothy amiably. "Why waste my breath?"

Sylvia Noventa looked at her, her eyes as kindly, her smile as charming as her image on the vidscreen suggested. Her appearance was unremarkable, and that was the secret of her success. She had the great talent of reminding any person who glanced at her of his sister, cousin or favorite aunt. She had sea green eyes that were as mercurial as the light reflected in them. Her dirty blond hair was soft but not lush; wavy but not curly; and shapeless but not unkempt. Sylvia Noventa was that curious blend of French and Italian that allowed her to resemble almost anyone; she could easily fool any bystander into thinking she was Dorothy's sister.

"I'm glad," she continued as if she had not heard the response. "You know, I've always had the feeling that you'll walk out on us _Society_ readers some morning without any reason."

"The feeling, Sylvia? Or the hope?"

"You know, you're wrong there," she said, smiling serenely.

"No. I don't fit, Sylvia. Do I?"

"I could, of course, ask: into what? But suppose I just say that people who don't fit have their uses also, as well as those who do? Would you like that better? Of course, the simplest thing to say is that I've always been a great admirer of yours and always will be."

"That's not a compliment."

"All right, then. If you'd prefer: somehow, I don't think we'll ever be enemies," said Sylvia, pleased. "See the extent to which I'm accommodating? But only for you, Dorothy."

"No, I don't think we'll ever be enemies, Sylvia. You're the most comforting person I know."

"Naturally." Sylvia laughed carelessly. Leaning casually against the doorway, she swept her eyes across the small, but neat office. Her gaze rested on the latest issue of _Society_ lying unopened and unread on Dorothy's desk. She said: "I also enjoyed your piece on Winner Tower. As independent as an insult, isn't it?"

"You know, the man who designed this should have committed suicide. A man who can conceive a thing as beautiful as this should never allow it to be erected. He should not want to exist. But he will let it be built, so that men will spit on his stairways and women will leave heel marks on his floors. He shouldn't have offered it for people like you to look at. For people like you to talk about." Dorothy's face was tranquil and her blank tone did not betray the vitriol of her words. "He's corrupted his own work by the first word you'll utter about it. He's made himself worse than you are. You'll be committing only a mean little indecency, but he's committed a sacrilege. A man who knows what he must have known to produce this should not have been able to remain alive. And the man who understood all this…yet still made it possible for this structure to exist in the first place, to be defiled by people like you, is the worst of sinners."

"Surely, you know that Winner Tower was designed by Heero Yuy." Sylvia's expression belied the slightest irritation.

"I have had no wish to know."

Unperturbed, Sylvia challenged, "Who is the real fool here? You're trying even now to save them. But you know, Dorothy, it's not well done. Not well at all."

"Why?"

"Don't you see what can be read between the lines? Of course, not many will notice that. He will. I do."

"It's not written for him or for you."

"But for the others?"

"For the others."

"Then it's a rotten trick on him and me."

"You see? I thought it was well done." Dorothy laughed gaily. "Now, why don't you tell me why you're still here."

Sylvia's tone was amused: "I have every reason to believe that Darlian will soon announce her candidacy for president. With her vacancy filled by Nicolae, I intend to recommend myself for the vice foreign minister position."_3-5_

"Is that so?" said Dorothy politely. "I'm afraid I wouldn't be of much use to you."

"On the contrary, I have need of your skills as the author of _One Small Voice_. Your words reach the ears of far more of the electorate than even you yourself realize_._ You see, I have a challenger to the throne, so to speak. In the last bureaucratic elections, politicians from Earth swept the Foreign Affairs office. The Colonies are understandably uneasy about this and urgently wish to install their own puppets."_6_

Dorothy appraised the steady set of her companion's shoulders and the delighted lilt of her voice. She said slowly: "You know I would've helped you anyway; there was no need for you to come personally."

"The challenger will likely be Naseem bint Zayeed Winner," her dulcet syllables caressed the room softly, "and considering your…history with her brother, I felt you would be delighted."_7_

"I have no history with Mr. Winner."

"Oh, come now, why bother denying it? You write such venomous words about him."

Dorothy sat looking at her, one arm flung over the back of her chair, a clunky circlet of light reflecting off her wrist. She seemed to be smiling. She said: "I have never met Mr. Winner."

For a singular, broken instant, Sylvia looked vulnerable at this admission. Then the moment collapsed on itself and she resumed speaking as if she had not paused, "My mistake. Shall I tell you about him then?" She added hastily: "For your column, of course."

Dorothy cast her a thoughtful glance and, in a tone that betrayed no reluctance, said: "Yes, of course."

"Well, you see, one can make one's point best by contrast, by comparison. As you did in your pretty little column yesterday. To appreciate Winner as he should be appreciated, let's follow up a comparison. You know Lord Weyridge, of course. I've spoken recently to Peter and he's quite in love with you, but naturally, you know that already. Well, I'll continue: they were both born in the same year – one a test tube baby, the other a natural born child – to great wealth. Winner was the only celebrated son, the only heir while Peter languished in the background, ignored as the youngest son. Winner is a household name all throughout the Earth Sphere while Peter is known only to the worst gossiping housewives. But these housewives understand Peter, can understand that he was engineered for mediocrity. They worship him for it, because no one likes heroes. We all secretly wish to be heroes ourselves and failing that, choose to hurt them, knock them off their pedestals."

Sylvia continued pleasantly: "Now, I don't believe that Winner thinks very much of Peter, or even knows that he exists. But they're both influential in their own way. They travel in the same circles. But follow me a little further, Dorothy. You and I both know that Winner is a hero. We both know what'll happen if the public learns it, too. No man likes to be beaten. But to be beaten by the man who has always stood as the particular example of mediocrity in his eyes, to start by the side of this mediocrity and to watch it worshipped, while he struggles and gets nothing but acid in his face, to see the mediocrity snatch from him, one after another, the achievements he risked his life for, to see the mediocrity adored, to be sacrificed, to be ignored, not by a god, but by a Peter Weyridge…"

"Sylvia!" Dorothy screamed. "Get out of here!"

She had leapt to her feet. She stood ramrod straight for a moment, then she collapsed forward onto her plexiglass desk, her clenched fingers marring its surface with vicious handprints. At the door, Sylvia turned and her too observant eyes captured Dorothy's tense posture and the effort made to contain the violence within. She said softly: "Dorothy, you're obvious, much too obvious."

-

That evening, when Dorothy came home, she received a call from Relena Darlian. "Dorothy, we need to talk. I'm on Rue des Bouchers. I'll be expecting you at Chez Léon," she said. "And don't make your usual excuses. I know you're free tonight."_8_ Then, without another word, the Foreign Minister of Interstellar Affairs disconnected the call. As Dorothy stared at the words "Connection Lost" flickering across the screen of her vidphone, she abruptly, inexplicably felt crushed by an influx of memories: Sylvia laughing in her office, Peter slyly slipping his arm over her shoulders, André looking hurt as she closed the door in his face. She had never felt more alone. Mechanically, she dialed her driver's number and instructed him to meet her at the penthouse; she reached slowly for her purse, clutching her keys until they grinded compulsively against each other before she forced her hand to loosen its grip.

She walked into Chez Léon less than an hour later. Relena sat alone at a corner table, stalwartly not facing the doorway. Two muscular young men, dressed conspicuously in matching black suits, sat at a nearby table and held their charge well in sight. They glanced around uncomfortably, surrounded by bright laughter and dozens of families with children in what was categorically a security nightmare. Dorothy smiled conspiratorially at them before slipping into the chair opposite her host. "It's been a long time, Relena."

Relena Darlian was dressed casually in a blouse and pleated skirt, bottomed out with soft leather boots. To the casual observer, the cerulean-eyed, honey blonde was a graduate student or a young mother. To Dorothy, she appeared jarringly out of place in the overly domestic scene. Relena crossed her fingers and assumed a more relaxed posture; her body language indicated that she often held herself like this, suspended between awkward tension and forced relaxation. She asked immediately, diplomatically: "Dorothy, we're friends, aren't we?"

"As friendly as we're ever likely to be." Dorothy smiled fleetingly as she sipped the glass of wine her friend had thoughtfully ordered before her arrival.

"Then, tell me why you're trying so hard to destroy Heero's reputation," her hands clutched the other tightly and her expression was frustrated as she impatiently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "and Quatre's as well. I've ignored your caustic remarks for years, but this is really just too much. You haven't even gone to see the construction site or talked to the architect."

Dorothy's gaze softened. For Relena to so visibly eschew her public persona in the presence of another was the true indication of their friendship. "I wrote what I believed. Come now, what are you really worried about? No one who's anyone will give a damn what I write in a woman's magazine."

"You're wrong about that." Relena exhaled slightly. "You've probably heard the rumors about my bid for the presidency. Well, it's all true and I want Quatre to be my running mate. I don't want any negative publicity from anyone…especially now."

"Congratulations. I wish you the best."

"That's not good enough. I want you to do me a favor, Dorothy. The annual Architecture Exposition is being held on L1 this weekend. Since you're doing a series on architecture, I want you to attend and I especially want you to speak with Heero. You're mistaken and we both know it," said Relena, shaking her head, her dark blond hair swaying haphazardly from the movement. "What I can't understand is why you carry on this farce."

"I just find it amusing to encourage fools. They always win anyway." Dorothy shrugged carelessly. "I've just stopped fighting the inevitable."

"Promise me this, Dorothy. I wish I could tell you why it's so urgent now, and you know that I respect your opinion, but something awful has happened very recently and it's extremely important now for Quatre to keep a low profile."

"This from a presidential hopeful?" asked Dorothy appraisingly, her expression guarded but mildly bemused. "You of all people should know the power of publicity."

"Trust me," she replied intensely. "You'll want to speak with Heero."

"All right. I suppose I can free my schedule for the next few days. As a favor for you, Relena. I really have no desire to see him."

Her shoulders grew perceptibly less tense. Relena's eyes glistened in the flickering candlelight as they met Dorothy's paler gaze. Her fingers unlocked their strained grip suddenly to reach for the menu. She smiled easily and said: "I'm famished. The mussels here are to die for."

* * *

-

_1_The Humane Housing Fund was established days after the ESUN headquarters in Brussels was embarrassed by a fire that revealed the poverty in the city's slums. This was a hastily contrived bureaucratic project attached carelessly to the Department of Urban Development, who had long overlooked the abhorrent conditions in the housing projects.

_2_Near the city center of Brussels, Belgium, stands the Conrad Brussels Hotel, situated on the famed Avenue Louise, adjacent to the plethora of designer shopping boutiques. Politicians and celebrities frequently stay at this hotel while in Brussels.

_3_Cava is the name of a type of white or pink sparkling wine, produced primarily in the Penedés region in Catalonia – the Catalan Countries – in Spain. Dorothy's ancestral home was in this region and many tracts of land, mainly in vineyards, still belong to the Catalonia estate, which she inherited upon her father's passing. Her Catalonia inheritance originated centuries ago from a cava monopoly.

_4_In AC 201, Vice Foreign Minister Relena Darlian was promoted to the Foreign Minister's office. The current President Vincent van Damme has almost served two full terms since his election in AC 196 – each term lasting five years. The present year is AC 205. Pursuant to the ESUN Charter, no commander-in-chief may serve more than two terms in office. If Relena runs for the presidency, Ioan Nicolae, the current vice foreign minister, will fill her vacancy, opening up the VFM position for someone else. This is the position Sylvia covets.

_5_Upon inheriting the Noventa family seat in the Parliament's House of Lords in AC 198, Sylvia gained popularity and momentum for her pacifist political stance. Due to her resemblance to Relena Darlian, many have hailed her as a disciple of Queen Relena. The Parliament is a bicameral system comprised of the House of Lords (self-appointed aristocrats and nobles along with wealthy businessmen and other influential people who essentially "buy" their seat) and the Senate (elected officials). Sylvia has emerged as a leader in the House of Lords.

_6_This line is an echo from the events of Endless Waltz when Mariemaia informed Relena that she has more influence than she herself realizes. _One Small Voice_ is read weekly by millions of women (and to a lesser extent, men) across the Earth Sphere. However, in a solar system of almost 7.1 billion people (according to the latest census conducted in AC 200), that number is not overwhelmingly significant.

_7_Naseem "daughter of Zayeed" Winner is currently the delegate from L4 in the ESUN Senate. She is five years older than Quatre; she is 30 years old.

_8_Located on Brussel's most famous restaurant street – Rue des Bouchers – Chez Léon is the city's most famous purveyor of marine delicacies. Open since 1893, this big, basic restaurant is extremely affordable and has spawned many clones in Brussels throughout the years.

-

* * *

A/N- Footnotes are once again utilized for your reading benefit. Unlike in previous chapters where they weren't necessary to enjoy the story, I would highly recommend reading them for this chapter. I hope you enjoy them. Thank you for reading!


	5. Rendezvous

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

The encounter between Dorothy and Quatre at the construction site quotes heavily from the first meeting between Dominique Francon and Howard Roark in The Fountainhead.

_Rendezvous means: a meeting of two or more spacecraft in Outer Space._

_

* * *

_

_Birth and Binding_ IV:

**Rendezvous**

by Terra

* * *

To hold his fists closed tight, as if the skin of his palms extended to the steel he held – not to feel the heaviness of his body, but only the tension of his knees, the vibrations of his wrists, the resistance of his shoulders and the drill he emerged as – wrestling in his grasp, was a source of great pleasure for Heero Yuy. He liked the work. He liked the emptiness of his body's exhaustion. If the other construction workers were surprised that the architect frequently donned their mantle, they did not show it. It felt natural for them to accept Heero as one of their own; here was a man who was not consciously aware of his otherness and so could not fathom flaunting his superior status.

Heero endured the sneers of the building inspectors. He patiently gave statements to the cavalier press. He did not notice the curious glances of pedestrians skirting the edge of the construction site. He knew only Winner Tower and he was expecting its owner. When Quatre appeared, his architect told him only: "There've been no major delays. You can expect it on schedule." His friend said, "You look like hell."

Quatre tilted his head back and laughed with abandon, joy personified. "I can always expect honesty from you, Heero."

Heero's casual glance was mildly interrogative. "You've seen Wufei."

"Yes," Quatre assented. "He contends it's too well-executed."

"He's right."

"Are we certain that our files aren't a decoy? The hackers could easily have accessed anything else on the mainframe."

Intense Prussian blue eyes scaled the length of the titanium girders reflecting not a skeleton, but the fleshy concrete product. "Wufei's people are working on ruling out that possibility. So far, the prognosis isn't good."

"But why now?" Quatre's trained neutral tone belied mild frustration. "What is there to be gained ten years after the fact?"

Heero's deep-throated laugh rang in the empty air unexpectedly. When his mirth subsided, he answered, "Money. Power. What else?"

The response was immediate, vehement: "I'd sooner disappear than allow them to hold my family's money hostage. They're fools if they think we can be blackmailed."

"No, they're not fools," replied Heero slowly, methodically. "Whatever they are, they aren't stupid."

A tense, but companionable silence fell between the two men. Quatre's restless eyes fell on the rusty, dented drill resting against his friend's knee. Gesturing in indication, he asked: "Do the men need you to supervise this closely?"

"I'm not here in a supervisory capacity," answered Heero, gripping the instrument to incline the drill towards the real owner of all the machinery. "I just like this kind of work."

Quatre accepted the construction tool, not surprised to discover that it was a Winner Construction Co. model, mused at its weightiness and said: "You submitted your design anonymously, but when I saw it, I knew that you were no ordinary architect. Only you had envisioned a building where the artistry matched its utility and I wondered then where you had learned your trade. The last time we had spoken, you were still in school."

"After the war, I was a rivet catcher in the reconstruction on L3._1_ I never learned more about architecture anywhere else." Heero explained offhandedly, while demonstrating how to use the drill. "I've been an electrician, and a plumber, and a demolitionist and many other things. I went to school last."

"I didn't know that." Grasping the machine steadily, Quatre strode purposefully past construction workers who stared bewilderingly at his expensive tailored suit, at his leather dress shoes and at the drill in his hand; they were stunned when he began to finish boring the holes their architect had abandoned minutes earlier.

Over the din, Quatre said distantly and precisely: "Heero, it's not money. It's instability they want."

-

Because the malfunctioning weather grid made it too hot that morning and she knew it would be hotter near construction equipment, because she wanted to see no one and knew she would face a gang of workers, Dorothy walked to the Winner Tower construction site. The thought of seeing it on that blazing day was revolting; she enjoyed the prospect of meeting Heero Yuy there.

When she emerged past the chain-link fence to the edge of the site, she stood still as an insult to the place below – to the creaking orange crane hovering overhead, to the faded yellow excavator raking dirt below, to the dusty, greasy workers cracking the compacted air with drills and hammers. Her dress – the color of water, a pale blue-green, condescendingly simple and markedly expensive – her ornamented heels glinting ostensibly in the sun and her curtain of hair limping in a loose bow over her shoulder flaunted the chilliness of private gardens and the hauteur of drawing rooms from which she came.

She looked down. Her eyes stopped on the pale blond hair of a man who raised his head and looked at her as if anticipating her arrival. She stood very still, because her first perception was not of sight, but of touch: the cognizance, not of a visual presence, but of a slap in the face. She held one hand awkwardly away from her body, the fingers spread wide on the air, as against a wall. She knew she could not move until he permitted her to.

Dorothy saw his mouth and traced the silent defiance in the shape of his mouth; the resilient planes of his defined cheeks; the competent, assured brilliance of the eyes that held no pity. She knew it was the most beautiful face she would ever see, because it was the abstraction of strength made tangible. She felt a convulsion of anger, of protest, of resistance – and of pleasure. He stood looking up at her; it was not a glance, but an act of ownership. She thought she must let her face give him the answer he deserved.

But she was looking instead at the dusty smears on his suit pant leg, the wet dress shirt clinging to his ribs, the muscular lines of his long, pale arms. She was thinking of those statues of men she had sought and broken; she was wondering what he would look like naked. She saw him looking at her as if he knew that. She thought she had found an aim in life – a sudden, sweeping hatred for Quatre Raberba Winner. She was first to move. She turned and walked away from him. She saw Heero Yuy leaning against a titanium girder, arms crossed, cautiously watching her approach.

Dorothy spoke first. "Relena sends her regards."

Slowly, he replied stiffly: "Thank you."

"I wish you had burned the designs for this building," she said, clear grey-blue eyes narrowed against the sun's assault, absently glancing at the structure. "What's worse is that you'll build another after this and another after that, always begging them to give you a chance to offer your best when all they want is an average architect's worst."

Heero walked until he stood at her side. "You forget that I'm building for them. Not because of them." Then he strode away, his hands tucked casually in his worn jean pockets, without a single glance backward.

Refusing to avoid him, Dorothy peered unwillingly under golden lashes at her enemy. She said civilly: "Good morning, Mr. Winner."

He inclined his head politely. He replied, "Miss Dorothy." He stood silently, looking at her. His mouth quivered in the hint of a smile, more insulting to her than words.

She had seen him from a distance, swaying from the trembling of the drill. Looking at him now, she thought – hopefully – that the vibrations of the drill hurt him, hurt his body, everything inside his body. She remembered another time, another place where she had speared him with a fencing foil. She hoped fervently that it had left a scar. Her voice was offensive, accusing: "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He sustained the insolence of looking straight at her, he would not move, he would not grant the concession of turning away – of acknowledging that he had no right to look at her in such a manner. His eyes said silently that he had not merely taken that right, but that she had given it to him. He said softly, destroying the bite of her words with his tenderness: "For the same reason you were staring at me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"If you didn't, you'd be much more astonished and much less angry, Miss Dorothy."

"I didn't expect to run into you here."

"If you had, no doubt, you wouldn't have come."

Dorothy laughed scornfully. "If you understand that much, then you should know I've only come to speak with Heero Yuy. Good day, Mr. Winner." She turned sharply and had walked three steps before his voice arrested her movement: "Relena knew I would be attending the Architecture Expo."

"By which, you mean she was hoping I'd see you." Her tone was flat and her inflection even, betraying none of her irritation, masking all of her anger.

"It's been ten years." Quatre took a step towards her. "And you're still afraid."

A harsh laugh was wrenched out of Dorothy's throat. "Since you seem to understand me so well, why don't you enlighten me? What am I so afraid of?"

"Me, Miss Dorothy. Of me. For me." He came another step closer. They were only an arm's length apart.

Dorothy demanded, her voice not a scream and not a question: "Just what makes you so sure?"

"I haven't forgotten. I can never forget." He walked one more step. If he wanted to, he could've touched her, stroked her skin with his, destroyed her. "Dorothy…Dominique."

Her eyes fluttered wide and her taut mouth closed in a silent scream. She had to run, not to be seen by anyone, not to be seen by herself if she could escape it. Only her father called her Dominique. She was assaulted with memories of his heavy cigar scent, the coarseness of his uniform, the dry softness of his hair, his thick Spanish accent when he told her that she looked like a princess wearing a headband. _Dominique_, _your given name means 'gift of god.' You're our gift – your mother's and mine.2_ She said nothing. They looked at each other. She thought that every silent instant passing was a betrayal; this wordless moment was too eloquent, this recognition that no words were necessary.

Their understanding was too offensively intimate. She destroyed it by speaking to him. She said sharply: "Don't you dare."

"I won't if you'll stop running away."

Her hand unconsciously reached up to brush her lips. She could almost savor his memory of blood's metallic aftertaste. She saw streaking lights on a warm, humming display: they were her pawns; she thought the perfect formation in her mind – her fingers dancing on the console – and the flickering lights obeyed. Dorothy quelled the welling sense of resentfulness as she remembered his intrusion into the deepest crevices of her mind._3_ "I haven't run anywhere."

Quatre laughed; a rich, unguarded sound. "You're right. You've been hiding in plain sight."

"I haven't been hiding at all." Her voice was cold and unyielding.

"You're so afraid of the world, you've chosen to concede in the worst way."

"Mr. Winner, I didn't come here to be insulted by you."

"No, you came here to be punished." Watching her lips part in protest, he continued, unheeded: "To convince Heero to abandon this project. To save him from the persecution to come. But most of all, you wanted him to refuse, so you wouldn't be alone."

She laughed dryly, mirthlessly. "I'm hardly alone."

"Aren't you?" said Quatre quietly. "You surround yourself with people to feel alone."

"Are we still speaking about me? It's not healthy to project yourself onto others, Mr. Winner."

"Am I? I don't run my company to amuse myself. You, on the other hand." His tone was thoughtful, curious. "When are you going to stop handing me all that extravagant praise? Someone else might see it. And you won't like that."

"Someone else?"

"You know that I understood, from that article of yours about Winner Tower. You wanted me to see it. But don't you think someone else might understand your way of doing things?"

"Oh, yes. But the effect – for you – will be worse than if they didn't. They'll like you less for it. However, I don't know who'll even bother to understand. Unless it's … what do you think of Sylvia Noventa?"

Quatre replied indifferently: "Why should anyone think of Sylvia Noventa?"

"It's people like her you should be most wary of. Are you really so blind to the world?"

"I'm not blind, Miss Dorothy. I've just never felt obligated to live by all its rules."

Dorothy whispered shallowly, intensely: "You're not aware of them. I am. I can't help it. The contrast is too great. Quatre, you won't win, they'll destroy you, but I don't want to be there to see it happen."

At the moment she pronounced the syllables of his name, tortured and yearning, forgoing formalities, he breached the invisible barrier they had wordlessly agreed to respect. He touched the fabric of her dress. He could feel a struggle in her lithe form, a violent shiver masking her intent to lean against him. Then, she shifted subtly, straightening the straps of her sundress, shattering the moment of intimacy. She said coolly: "The Exposition opens in less than an hour. I need to return to my hotel and prepare."

Quatre dropped his arm, but did not step aside, forcing her to pass around him. To her retreating form, he said softly, resolutely: "Don't wait to be saved, Dorothy."

-

When Quatre returned to his hotel suite, he received a call from Relena Darlian. Her sandy blond hair swishing in mildly contained agitation, her head leaning towards the screen, she told him gravely: "I don't feel right announcing our candidacy with this security breach hanging over us."

"I know. Relena, I won't be your running mate. If my role during the war becomes public, I won't drag you down with me."

"If it comes to that," she said dryly, "you'll need my political clout to hold back the lynch mobs."

Quatre laughed, carefree, deflating the tense bearing of his shoulders. "When you phrase it that way, I'm inclined to agree with you."

"To think that just two days ago," she said, smiling self-deprecatingly. "I was fretting over whether to include 'Peacecraft' on the ballot."

"Relena," his tone suddenly serious, "something is amiss. If political instability is their objective…if they wanted to destroy both of us simultaneously, they should've waited until after our announcement. The media has speculated that our candidacy was forthcoming for months."

"We may be giving them more credit than they're due." Her brow creased in concentration. "Sally told me that the hacker tripped every alarm in the system when he stole the files and had to essentially dismantle the entire mainframe to cover his tracks."

"In doing so, he's allowed us to take countermeasures. Whomever he answers to won't be pleased. That may explain the delay in publicizing the information."

"There's no question that that's their ultimate aim, is there?"

"No, I have no doubt. However, it's possible that they're rethinking when to leak the files to the press. They'll want to time it for the greatest political impact."

"Are you all—" she hesitated. "Are you certain that hiding is not an option? I know that for public figures like you and Duo, it might seem tantamount to an admission of guilt, but surely the others…?"_4_

"I know you're concerned about Heero, but he's just begun his career as an architect. He wants to finish at least one building before he's forced to retire."

"Yes, I know." Relena sighed softly. "When I called, I took one look at him and knew he wasn't going to budge, but I had to try."

"As for the others – after hearing the news, Trowa went on vacation to Earth with his sister." Quatre smiled wistfully. "I think he wants to enjoy his relative anonymity while he still can. Wufei, as you know, is heading the investigation so he won't be running anywhere."

"It's so unjust what's happened…what will happen." She shook her head; her voice quivered slightly, exasperated, dismayed. "How could Une not have the foresight to delete those files?"

"Even as a colonel, she didn't have the clearance to access those secret OZ databanks. They were innocuously embedded within regular housekeeping programs. It was only when those codes were broken by the hacker that we became aware of their existence. It's a telling sign that whoever orchestrated this knew long before we did."_5_

"You suspect Romefeller?"

"Among others."

"Did you—" Relena paused. "Dorothy Catalonia is on L1 right now. She may know more than she's willing to tell me."

"I saw her," he added, "as you hoped I would."

Not denying his allegation, she asked keenly: "And did she say anything?"

"No. I didn't tell her about the hacker."

"What?" Her forehead crinkled slightly in confusion. "If it's about trust, I vouch for her character, although, I would think you'd feel the same way."

"She would only have been hurt by it, Relena," he said slowly. "I won't involve her until my tower no longer tortures her."

"About that – I told her that while she may be entitled to her opinions, she needs to stop drawing attention to you and Heero especially at a time like this."

Quatre smiled wryly. "Dorothy Catalonia is not the kind of woman who would listen to that kind of advice. Even from you, Relena."

"I disagree. She's notoriously difficult, but she could be a powerful ally."

"Considering persuading her to claim the Catalonia seat?"_6_

"That's merely icing on the cake. As it stands, she regularly wines and dines with Romefeller's elite. I'll ask her to accompany me to the Economic Forum this year and you can see her in action." Relena continued emphatically: "Quatre, in the worst case scenario, we'll need all the allies we can find."_7_

-

Heero Yuy clipped his name card to the cusp of the left pocket on his grey-blue suit. "Heero Yuy, Architect" was emblazoned on the digital cellophane which alternatively displayed his name and the design for Winner Tower. He stood patiently by his exhibit: a dozen architectural renderings, photographs and models. He had spent many hours crafting a exhaustive model of the future Winner Tower, including models of its surrounding buildings, an interactive virtual tour of the inside and a timeline detailing each phase of construction. Heero had exceeded the requirements for an exhibition at this prestigious convention and he knew it. His colleagues in adjacent booths begrudgingly knew it, too. They sneered at him as they passed and allowed their whispering voices to carry.

Heero was saddled between a showcase of purportedly innovative designs for government buildings and an exhibit exploiting the architectural past, in the name of progress. In recent years, it had become the fashion in architectural circles to draw heavily from past canons. The Devolution movement – the belief that architects have a duty to adapt the beauty of the past to match the needs of the present – had come into vogue and seemed poised to stay. The philosophy's central tenet presumed that every great artistic breakthrough had been long since discovered and that architects ought to revive the past using modern materials. Heero couldn't conceive of anything more degrading.

The annual Architecture Exposition not only displayed to the public the various achievements of stars in the field, but also allowed them to brazenly self-promote to potential employers. Heero had been invited, because he had become an object of curiosity amongst his colleagues and some enthusiasts and because he had landed the Winner contract. Many people came to look at his exhibit, but almost as if responding instinctively, they refused to look him in the eye when they spoke to him. Some asked him his opinion on Devolution, others demanded to know why he was deliberately effacing the architecture profession with his extreme ideas and the honest men wondered about the shameless nature of his building: its glassy panes unafraid to reveal the contents within, the relentless skyward reach of its spires and the utilitarian division of its spaces.

When he next saw Dorothy Catalonia, he observed her immaculate appearance, her indifferent stance and the swarming crowd of men surrounding her. Across the room of indistinguishable, milling figures, his Prussian blue glance clashed with her grey-blue gaze. The silent challenge issued by his eyes prompted her to approach his exhibit. She leaned weightlessly against one slender elbow and curved down to admire his models. Slowly, her free hand soared to caress the sculpture of Winner Tower. Absently catching his amused glance, she abruptly straightened and turning to her companion said: "Lord Beckinsale, it's a perfect atrocity, isn't it?"

Her admirer nodded sagaciously. "Unbridled arrogance, that's what it is."

Dorothy laughed gaily. "Why, you're absolutely right. Andrew, be a darling and find me a flute of champagne. I'd like to exchange a few words with this esteemed gentleman."

Andrew Beckinsale moved with awkward reluctance, casting Heero a distrusting look. Then he bent down to kiss Dorothy's hand and replied airily: "Of course. I'll only be a moment."

She bade him farewell with a serene smile. Turning around to face Heero, she said, "Where were we? Oh, yes, Relena told me that it would be worth my time to speak with you. I hope you won't disappoint me."

There was a short, tense pause as Heero assessed her thoughtfully. Then he answered tersely: "There was a Preventer security breach two days ago. A hacker uncovered a hidden OZ database in the system that contained Gundam schematics and pilot profiles. Right now, he's still at large."

Dorothy stared at Heero for a long, painful moment. She breathed, "Oh, you perfect fools! Any day now…and still you—" There was an instant of comprehension and then a visible struggle in her face to maintain composure.

"Relena trusts you, and we could use your help."

She said softly: "I assume you want information about Romefeller."

"Whom do you suspect?"

"There are a number of Foundation politicians who'll want to ascend the political ladder in the upcoming elections." Dorothy's uninterested tone wavered. "If…this information is leaked to the press…there are a few who would stand to gain."

"I'll need names."

"Vice President Desmond, naturally. He'll be hoping for a chance, any chance to tarnish Relena's reputation. Hadrian Kaiser, the solicitor general. Former Foreign Minister Beauchamp. That bribery scandal has really hurt her standing with the Romefeller bigwigs. Those are the three that come immediately to mind. Maybe even Akira Takahashi. Why not? Romefeller is expanding beyond Europe."_8_ Then she paused to consider: "Perhaps Sylvia Noventa."

"Noventa?"

Dorothy watched the shift of surprise on his face with interest. "Have you met her?"

"Briefly…ten years ago."

"That changes things," she said softly. "That changes everything, but what can I do?"

Heero slowly reached for her; his hand encircled her braided plait dangling loosely against her collarbone, pulling her closer to him. Her eyes widened in surprise. He said with finality: "Your sense of integrity is destructive. I don't care if I'm your target, but don't involve Quatre or Relena."

She made a movement to speak, but her next words were lost when her shortly-departed companion returned at that moment with drinks in hand. She accepted the champagne graciously and walked away without another utterance, leaving Heero to look on after her in contemplative silence.

* * *

-

_1_After the conclusion of the Mariemaia Incident, CEO Quatre Winner and the WEC (Winner Enterprises Colonial) oversaw the reconstruction of L3-X18999 – the colony which declared its independence in AC 197 – to repair the colony stability system which had been tampered with by the Barton Foundation. Unbeknownst to the Winner heir, Heero was hired as a rivet catcher, who fastens structural parts and assemblies together, giving him insight into the engineering process and valuable experience working with practical construction.

_2_Dorothy means "gift of god." Her mother died from childbirth complications when Dorothy was born. Her father passed away years later in battle.

_3_Before the final battle against White Fang, the Gundam pilots encountered several Mobile Doll units controlled by the ZERO system. Dorothy Catalonia had been the strategist behind them. During the encounter, Quatre and Dorothy's minds were linked for a second by the ZERO system and this psychic connection allowed both to sample some of the other's most powerful memories.

_4_In AC 202, Duo Maxwell became the head of the Sweeper Group, which deals in used machinery and salvaged space debris, recovering functional units to sell on the market. The Sweeper Group is a major player in the economy of Outer Space, especially vital for older colonies needing constant maintenance. Winner Enterprises Colonial (WEC) often negotiates lucrative contracts with the Sweeper Group; the friendship between Duo and Quatre has made this partnership more or less seamless.

_5_After Preventer technical specialists reset the mainframe, they discovered that the programs they had incorporated from OZ's defunct database contained troves of secret databanks detailing secret experiments, mobile suit designs and classified information. The identities of the Gundam pilots and the schematics of their mobile suits were never revealed to the OZ rank-and-file members. Only top officials and select soldiers from OZ and the Romefeller Foundation were privy to that information.

_6_Dorothy has never claimed her hereditary seat in the House of Lords in the ESUN's legislative branch – the Parliament. As a member of the Romefeller Foundation, and as heiress to the Catalonia and Dermail estates, she has considerable wealth and political clout – two crucial prerequisites for a hereditary Parliamentary seat.

_7_The Earth Sphere Economic Forum is held annually at a famous Alpine retreat in Davos, Switzerland. Corporate executives, heads of state, Parliamentary politicians, socialites and debutantes gather there every year to discuss interspatial trade and other policies. (inspired by the real annual World Economic Forum)

_8_Allen Desmond currently serves as the vice president of the ESUN, but has recently lost much popularity due to the failure of his anti-poverty legislation – in light of the highly publicized Poor Man's Fire in Brussels' housing projects – and lags behind Relena Darlian in polls of the upcoming presidential elections.

Hadrian Kaiser is a rising star in the judiciary; he is the ESUN solicitor general who frequently appears before the ESUN's highest court – the Supreme Court in Luna, the Moon's capital – on behalf of the government and who many speculate will eventually earn a seat on the court.

Colette Beauchamp was the former Foreign Minister of Interstellar Affairs before a bribery scandal forced her resignation.

Akira Takahashi is the head of the Maruito Group, which owns the largest chain of European-style hotels in Asia. (inspired by the real world Maruito Group which owns European-style hotels only in Japan)

-

* * *

A/N- As usual, footnotes are included for your reading pleasure. Finally, after a decade, Dorothy Catalonia and Quatre Winner finally meet again. Heero was always a planned inclusion in this chapter, but then Relena decided to drop in. Thank you for reading!


	6. The Man with Two Faces

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

For The Fountainhead readers, some of the conversation between Dorothy and Trowa is taken from a dialogue in the novel between Dominique Francon and Gail Wynand.

_So entitled, because Trowa is quite two-faced, in his ability to deceive, infiltrate and impersonate, but also in part, because he is ever in search of an identity he can call his own._

_

* * *

_

_Birth and Binding_ V:

**The Man with Two Faces **

by Terra

* * *

Mariemaia Khushrenada awoke abruptly to a shrill noise emanating from the nightstand. As she blurrily clutched for her cell phone, she cursed silently when she caught sight of the digital clock dispassionately displaying: 4:27 AM. Answering the call, she snapped, "What?"

"It's Dorothy. I'm en route to Majorca. I want you to cancel whatever plans you may have and meet me for dinner."_1_

"For…dinner? Just what time do you think it is?"

There was an awkward pause as Dorothy mentally calculated the time difference. She sighed heavily, an uncharacteristically vulnerable motion. "I'm sorry. I didn't think."

Mariemaia was suddenly alert. Her instincts screamed caution and she was certain that something had happened since the last time she saw her cousin. Her voice authoritative, demanding, she asked: "Dorothy, what is it?"

"It's not even dawn yet. I'll let you sleep a few more hours," she said dismissively. "We'll discuss this at dinner. I should arrive in twelve hours or so."

As Mariemaia disconnected the call, she vaguely recalled her cousin leaving for L1 for an architecture convention. Glancing absently at her wristwatch, she realized that taking into account the time in transit, Dorothy had stayed on L1 for no longer than twenty-four hours. Her cousin had undoubtedly encountered some setback and had fled to Castell de Bellver, her favorite retreat, to escape. Mariemaia thought, amusingly, that she shared many of her fairer cousin's traits. They both exhibited a similar temperament to those outside the family and when distressed, tended to seek the company of the other, a telling sign of their mutual trust and respect.

She had come to Majorca to unwind for the fall break after what was quickly becoming a taxing semester at Harvard._2_ Although, she had inherited an extensive estate upon her father's passing, she found Burg Eltz's ancient and hallowed halls cold and uninviting in the fall compared to the friendlier and considerably less snowy island._3_ Recognizing that sleep would no longer be forthcoming, she resigned herself to wakefulness and slipping out from underneath her satin sheets, pulled a cord by her bedside connecting her to the kitchens and requested a strong cup of coffee.

When Dorothy arrived half a day later, they retired to a secluded terrace where a feast had already been prepared for them. Mariemaia noticed immediately her cousin's exhausted and disheveled appearance. The constant traveling had taken its toll and she easily discovered through small talk that Dorothy's attention was erratic and unfocused. She was beyond simply troubled. Mariemaia had been trained once upon a time by her grandfather to recognize and file away these little observations of weakness when dealing with people and it was a habit she was hard-pressed to break. After handing her cousin a cup of steaming tea, she inquired carefully: "Now, tell me what's happened."

"My grandfather is pulling the strings from beyond the grave again."

"How so?"

Dorothy smiled excruciatingly. "He's left me another present, only someone else has ripped it open before I could get to it."

"Not another Vulkanus!"_4_

"No, it's much more terrifying. He hid databanks within normal programs and code in the OZ database. When those were incorporated into the Preventer mainframe, his databanks were preserved, as he had planned for them to be, should anything happen to OZ."

Mariemaia sat still, her attention riveted by her cousin's muted distress. "What was contained in those databanks?"

"Many things: mobile suit schematics, dirt he had on his political allies and rivals, unscrupulous financial records," Dorothy paused significantly, "but most importantly, he had saved every scrap of data he had on Operation Meteor and the Gundams in those data troves."

"Including their identities," Mariemaia whispered, alarmed at this revelation. She deduced: "And someone's found them."

"Not just someone, but an expert hacker. I contacted a friend in the bureau on my way here and he verified the breach. He told me the details about what my grandfather had hoarded away."

"And the Preventers haven't caught the perpetrator?"

"No. It's been a few days now. The trail's gone cold."

A heavy contemplative silence fell between the two. Mariemaia had long since lost her appetite. She asked, "What will you do?"

"Me?" Her cousin laughed with ill-disguised anguish. "What can I do?"

The younger girl frowned at this disheartening reaction. "The Earth Sphere Economic Forum is in a few weeks. Everyone expects Relena to announce that she's running for president then. Doesn't that strike you as the perfect time to drop a bombshell like this?"

"That did occur to me. The fallout would be horrific, but I'm powerless to prevent it."

"Dorothy," Mariemaia's even tone took on an entreating quality, "you're rarely this upset. What else happened on L1?"

"I ran into Quatre Raberba Winner there. And he's wrong. Every one of them is mistaken and this mess has proven that this world is every bit as disgusting as I've always suspected."

"What do you mean?"

"Winner acts as if none of this can affect him. He doesn't care that the public could very well tear him apart."

"Dorothy, I don't think he's ignorant of that fact. He's the kind who would never run away from something like this."

"That's precisely what I'm saying. He knows, but refuses to acknowledge that other people can hurt him."

Mariemaia's eyes softened. "You almost sound envious."

-

Catherine Bloom had never seen the Earth like this before – away from tents, animals, circus music. Of course, she'd watched holofilms and vidscreen shows depicting the Earth. After all, who hadn't? But to be standing on a beach overlooking an endless horizon of roiling cyan under a crimson sky was surreal. The Earth could not merely be seen; it had to be experienced to be believed. In that moment, she felt a sharp stab of envy of Earth-dwellers. To live in such a world could be not less than a religious experience. How could anyone make war when surrounded by such beauty? Having lived in a domed world all of her life, it had been required of her to visit a psychoanalyst who needed to clear her for gaeaphobia before she could obtain a visa from Immigration._5_

The complete immersion simulation of the Earth she had had to sit through for fifteen hours didn't remotely compare to the rough unpredictable nature of the real place. The colonies were carefully cultivated ecosystems in which even rain was rationed, a sharp contrast to their blue mother planet. She was a worrier by nature but a risk taker through experience. Years of tightrope walking and gravity-defying acrobatics had evolved Catherine from someone who feared heights to a bona fide thrill seeker. The few times she had been on Earth, she had been terrified by its sheer openness, not daring to stray too far from the circus, but her evaluator had concluded that her fears did not warrant agoraphobia status.

Catherine breathed in the salty air and turned to face her adoptive brother, allowing the torrential winds to hurl her red hair around her face._6_ She exclaimed, "It's even more beautiful here than I imagined!"

Trowa Barton sat on the lone flat rock burgeoning out of the yellow sea of sand. He tilted his head back to enjoy the caress of the wind fluttering his unbuttoned dress shirt and tearing against his dense bangs. Eyes closed, he replied unguardedly, "I've always loved the ocean."

"I never thought I'd say this, but I'm jealous of the people here on Majorca or well…I guess just here in general." She stared into the setting sun and opened her arm to embrace the empty air, indicating their surroundings. "They have all of this and have no idea how to appreciate it."

Nodding towards the last of the straggling sunbathers and swimmers on the beach, he said wryly, "They seem to appreciate it just fine."

"Oh! You know what I mean, Trowa. I'll never understand how they could pollute until they nearly killed the planet. Not that I begrudge them for creating the colonies, of course, even if they were a last-ditch ploy to save themselves in case Earth became unlivable. But, thank god, they came to their senses before it was too late."

"Pollution wasn't their biggest fear at the time, Cathy. It was nuclear fallout from another world war before nuclear reactors were uniformly banned."

"War!" She snorted. "It always comes down to fools who think war is a game. It's like they've never noticed that there are real lives at stake."

Trowa allowed his eyes to wander the bleeding sky, and said placidly, "We've been doing pretty well for the last ten years."

"Well, I suppose that's true. You know I'd like to have faith in people, but sometimes, even now, I dream about my parents and then I'm forced to remember why I—" she sighed, "why we grew up as orphans. I've been thinking about them recently, especially now that the manager's retired and he's sold it all to us. I mean, my parents were part of the circus when it was just a caravan and now that it's fallen into our hands, it's like I'm being forced to move on, to forget about them…to forget about Triton."

"Cathy," he said gently. "They would've wanted you to have the circus."

"Do you really think so?"

"Your happiness would be foremost on their minds and if the circus makes you happy, I'm certain you have their blessing."

"Oh, Trowa, you always know exactly the right things to say."

"I can't help that you're easy to please."

"Trowa!" Catherine laughed, retaliating by showering her brother with sand.

-

Dorothy Catalonia always lived alone, rarely tolerating anyone's presence outside of her cousin's, when she came to Majorca. She received no visitors. When Mariemaia was not residing at Castell de Bellver, servants were the only human beings Dorothy saw, not too often and merely out of necessity during meals. The meals were served with the gracious severity the servants had learned in the days when Dorothy's mother lived and presided over the guests in the great dining room. At night, Dorothy found her solitary place at the table laid out as for a formal banquet: the candles lighted, the floral centerpiece sprightly arranged, her favorite wine chilling in ice. The silent footmen served the meal in unobtrusive silence, and always disappeared immediately afterwards, fading like phantoms into the woodwork.

When Dorothy walked up the stairs to her bedroom, she found the fragile lace folds of her nightgown laid out on the bed. In the morning, she entered her bathroom and found water in the sunken bathtub, heated to leave steamy residues on her mirrors, just the temperature she preferred. Her huge fluffy towels were always laid out on the chilly tiles when she finished – yet she heard no steps and felt no living presence in the house. The servants' treatment of Dorothy had the same reverent caution with which they handled the pieces of Venusian glass in the drawing-room cabinets. As a child, she had been fascinated with the kaleidoscopic molten glass extracted from the volcanic regions of Venus. The glass was hopelessly rare and expensive – two qualities the young girl she had been was taught to admire and, one day, embody.

For many years since then, when she entered the drawing room, she no longer admired them. She was as indifferent to their splendor and luxury as she was to the poverty of the housing projects. Dorothy had spent so many summers and winters, surrounding herself with people in order to feel alone, that the experiment of actual solitude was an enchantment to her and a betrayal into a weakness she had never allowed herself: the weakness of enjoying it. Sometimes, she started on foot from the house and walked for miles, setting herself no goal and no hour of return. No natives were surprised to see her, and when they passed her, always bowed to the "Lady of the Bellver;" she was considered the chatelaine of the countryside, as her mother had been long ago._7_ The only people who regarded her with ill-disguised curiosity were the tourists who flocked to the island to escape the bitter winters at home.

She was on one of these walks a few days after she had fled from L1, alone and deep in thought when she heard: "Trowa!"

Dorothy was drawn abruptly out of her reverie. Casting a wayward glance in the direction of the scream, a sudden movement captured her attention: a woman in a bathing suit and a wraparound skirt pivoted lightly on her feet, compacting sand in her fist before hurling it like a snowball at her companion. The young man was sitting atop her favorite rocky pew. It was impossible that this man in the distance could be Trowa Barton, a former Gundam pilot, a man she had met transiently in the most absurd of circumstances, but who had made an indelible impression. This woman could not have shouted his name into the wind. And yet, as she approached the couple, the copper brown tinge of his hair glistened familiarly in the embers of the drifting sun and upon closer inspection, she immediately recognized his features – older, yet gentler; more rugged, but undeniably cast in the same features, as if to mock her inability to forget his face.

It was only when she felt the coarse grains of sand pooling around her sandaled feet that she realized with a start that she had been walking towards them. Before she could slip away unnoticed, the man she felt certain was Trowa turned and saw her. Staring defiantly into his surprised evergreen eyes, she silently asserted her right to stand there. As if greeting an old friend, she said: "It's been years, hasn't it?"

While his red-haired companion looked appraisingly at her, as if trying to recall when, if ever, she had met this newcomer, Trowa assessed her calmly, with mechanical thoroughness. Then, he turned slightly away, satisfied with his inspection, but there was a shift in his posture, a change that now included her. He replied in the same familiar tone: "Ten to be exact."

"Trowa Barton," she enunciated slowly. She glanced absently at his ring-less hand. "Where are your manners? Aren't you going to introduce me to your lady friend?"

"Cathy, this is Dorothy Catalonia. We met briefly during the war. Miss Catalonia, my sister, Catherine Bloom."

Dorothy inclined her head politely. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Bloom."

"Oh! Yours, too." The other woman looked slightly alarmed at the formality of Dorothy's manner and at the realization that she was from her brother's bloody past. "So…how do you know Trowa?"

"We met on the Libra. I was part of the White Fang."

Catherine quickly glanced at Trowa, her expression forming a silent question. He addressed her, "Cathy, if you don't hurry, the shops will close. I know how much you wanted a souvenir. If you don't mind, I'll join you later."

"Well…" she hesitated. She looked at Dorothy again for a long moment before turning away, having judged from her appearance that she didn't seem dangerous. "All right, but don't stay outside too long. You'll catch a cold." Slowly, she turned and hesitantly walked away from them, her retreating figure soon lost within the crowd of departing beachgoers.

Her words were so maternal that Dorothy couldn't help but laugh. When Trowa glanced at her curiously, she said, "You're very lucky to know a woman like her."

"I know." Then, after a pause that almost physically dissipated the tense atmosphere, he asked, genuinely interested, "Are you here on vacation?"

"In a manner of speaking." Dorothy gestured indifferently to the looming castle in the distance. "I live there during the winter months. And you?"

"Cathy fancies herself a wine connoisseur, after her father. She wanted to visit some vineyards in Spain, so she chose Majorca as the first destination."

She fell lightly against the abrasive ridge of the rock alongside Trowa. "Her father?"

"We're not related. She more or less adopted me during the war."

She said, amused: "Like a stray?"

"Something like that. I was lost and she found me."

"How generous of her."

"Her parents and younger brother had died when she was a child. She wanted a real family. And I needed a home."

"And she didn't have anyone else?"

"Her parents had lived with a caravan and the circus manager raised her after their death. She's spent her entire life with the traveling circus."

"And do you stay with her at this circus?"

"Yes," he smiled wryly, "I'm a clown."

"Well, I suppose your particular talents are useful for that kind of thing." Dorothy laughed freely. "What will you do once you become too old for it?"

"I won't. Cathy and I are co-managers of the circus."

"You're a businessman as well? You're certainly full of surprises."

"The manager retired and Cathy felt it was time that we succeeded him."

"And this circus has been your home since the war ended?"

"Yes." Trowa inclined his head in agreement. "I haven't been lost for a long time."

"Oh? I suppose we were all lost once, orphaned by the war." Dorothy smiled, her tone consciously clean of accusation. "But I don't believe you. You're no less lost than I am."

He looked at her. His voice was casual: "What makes you so sure?"

"I haven't yet learned how to cry. And you haven't learned how to live."_8_

"How do you mean?"

"Take your sister, for example. You've managed to neatly integrate yourself into her life without disturbing any part of it – traveling with the circus, because that's where she is; purchasing the circus, because that's what she wanted; coming to Majorca, because she desired to visit vineyards. You haven't even been Trowa Barton, an identity you stole. You've been too busy impersonating her deceased brother."

Under the loose dress shirt, his shoulders made a sagging movement forward; it was surprise – and helplessness. He stared at her, quite simply, openly. After a while, he said: "You presume a lot from the little I've told you."

"I presume nothing."

"Don't be so sure that we're alike." He was silent for a moment. Lifting his head, he saw the hint of amusement in her eyes. Then he said, his voice reluctant, as if he were holding back some telling sign of his true thoughts: "You said it just to trap me into that kind of a statement?"

"Yes, I think so," she answered pleasantly.

He looked at her silently, allowing no hint of personal reaction in his face. She leaned against the rock looking up at him, faintly astonished by his scrutiny, as if her words had deserved no special attention. "You're an interesting woman."

"I don't mean to be."

"That's your third mistake."

"Third?"

"The first was admitting that you haven't learned to cry. If I haven't learned to live, because I'm too accommodating then you're no different for refusing to allow the world to change any part of you, denying your place in it through your inaction."

"But I expect you to notice that I haven't chosen to live. That would disqualify any pretence to the contrary."

"I intended to say that to you."

Dorothy said, gratified. "But this way is more entertaining."

"You expected to be entertained?"

"I am."

"Your second error was in your analysis of me. You've revealed your definition of nonexistence by accusing me of impersonation. Yet, you hide by keeping yourself in the public eye: in the tabloids and society pages. I've read some of what you've written over the years and you've chosen to rebel against the world by mocking it, by impersonating a bored socialite."

There was an undertone of surprise – and satisfaction in her voice. "You've perceived more than I expected. Very well, and the third?"

"Telling me that you don't mean to be an interesting woman."

"And how is that a miscalculation?"

"Most people go to very great lengths in order to convince themselves of their self-respect."

"Yes."

"You should know that a quest for self-respect is proof of its lack."

"Yes, I do."

"Do you see the meaning of a quest for self-contempt?"

"That I lack it?"

Trowa said with finality: "And that you'll never achieve it."

The thin line of her mouth moved faintly, as if her lips had caught the first hint of a suspicion confirmed. She spoke, mildly discomfited: "I didn't expect you to understand that either."

There was no triumph in his face, only awareness. "Shall I tell you the difference between you and your façade?"

"If you wish."

"Everything about you is the theme of exaltation. It's so inherent to your character that no one can be completely fooled in spite of your best efforts. But your chosen theme is suffering."

"Suffering? I'm not conscious of having shown that."

"You haven't. That's what I meant. No happy person can be so impervious to pain."

Dorothy laughed with pleasure. "You may enjoy my admitting it, but I think we'll get along very well together."

-

Peter Weyridge knew that the mistress of Castell de Bellver never received guests when she stayed on Majorca. He did not think that she would make an exception for him. But he came anyway, because she had – in her cool, derisive manner – asked him to accompany her to the _Society_ banquet. It was held annually to honor the publication's employees, advertisers and most influential readers. As such, the reception was to take place on the island of Sicily in large part due to Lady Sylvia Noventa's esteemed readership and gracious hospitality_.__9_ She had volunteered to host the festivities in her ancestral home on the island as a favor for her old friend, _Society _editor-in-chief André Seward. Peter wanted to play the part of thoughtful escort and so sought to impress Dorothy with his determination to make his affections known.

When he was admitted into the foyer of the castle, the butler told him firmly, but politely that the mistress had departed a short while earlier for a walk and was not expected for a few hours. Frustrated with the noncommittal manner of the servants who had all steadfastly professed ignorance of Dorothy's whereabouts, Peter departed in his car towards town, hoping to run into her. It was by chance that his eye caught a flash of silky blond hair and pulling over to the side of the road, discovered that the woman deep in conversation with a startlingly handsome brown-haired man was, indeed, Dorothy Catalonia. She was perched comfortably against a slanting rock, speaking animatedly with the mysterious stranger. He could not force on himself, though he was seeking it fiercely, any other impression of her face than one of intimate ease, so unlike the coldly beautiful expressions she had always shown him.

He felt an inexplicable smoldering anger and a sharp thrust of envy directed at her companion. He shouted, "Dorothy! I've been looking for you."

She turned to face him. Her expression shuttered, her voice coolly modulated, she asked: "Peter, what are you doing here?"

He drew himself up to his full height and smiled brilliantly, as if in homecoming. "I thought I'd accompany you to Sicily. Rumor had it that you were on Majorca."

"And you decided to follow me here?"

His overly joyous smile faltered. "I rather thought of my coming as a pleasant surprise."

"Don't fret, Peter. I'm only teasing." Dorothy laughed gaily. Pivoting towards her companion, she said nonchalantly: "I suppose it's my turn to make introductions. Peter, this is Trowa Barton, an old friend of mine. Mr. Barton, Lord Peter Keating Weyridge."

"How do you do." Peter bowed shallowly, his jealousy battering against his eagerness to impress. He noticed that the other man did not extend him the same courtesy. Instead, this stranger's forest green eyes pierced his own for only a moment before sweeping away disinterested, as if he had seen nothing, having come to a mute judgment. His curt nod blankly acknowledged Peter's greeting.

She touched the other man's arm lightly. "Mr. Barton, it has been a pleasure catching up with you. Please give my regards to your sister."

He replied simply: "I will."

Watching Dorothy walk rigidly, as if making an effort to stay beside him, to his car, Peter cast one last glance behind at Trowa Barton. He wondered why the two seemed not like old friends, but like comrades.

* * *

-

_1_Majorca is a popular tourist location and the largest of the three Balearic Islands, an archipelago in the western Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Spain. The Catalonia family, native to Spain, owns an estate on the island – a fortress known as Castell de Bellver: "Bellver" means "lovely view" in ancient Catalan (the language of Dorothy's ancestors).

_2_At age 15, Mariemaia is in her third year at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts, United States. A child prodigy, she enrolled in fall of AC 202 and double-majors in Political Science and Art History, with a pending minor in Sociology.

_3_Burg Eltz – translated " Eltz Castle" – is located in Moselkern, a village in southwestern Germany. This has long been the main Khushrenada estate, having been passed down generation after generation by the descendents of the royal House of Eltz.

_4_In the manga Battlefield of Pacifists, Vulkanus was an abandoned and forgotten mobile doll factory sought after by two forces: former OZ General Broden and the Perfect Peace People. Duke Dermail authorized the development of Vulkanus and Chief Engineer Tsubarov commissioned its creation, but was killed before he could mobilize its new mobile doll types. Ultimately, the Gundam pilots destroyed the plant and eliminated this newest threat to peace before the events of Endless Waltz.

_5_Gaeaphobia – a fear of the vast, open and unpredictable nature of the Earth – officially became a subset of categorical agoraphobia in AC 10 after the first generation of mankind sent to the stars returned home from constructing the colonies found themselves unable to readjust. Agoraphobia had long been classified as a debilitating phobia – the abnormal fear of being helpless in a situation from which escape is difficult or embarrassing, often characterized at first by panic or anxiety and finally by avoidance of open or public places.

_6_While Episode Zero hints strongly at Trowa's being Catherine's long-lost brother, Triton, and the Endless Waltz novelization confirms their siblinghood, neither of the pair is aware of it.

_7_Chatelaine means the mistress of the chateau or country house. Dorothy's mother – Duchess Véronique Christelle Dermail – had often resided on Majorca during the winter, hosting large banquets, soirees and parties. Those who lived on the island greatly admired the "Lady of the Bellver," as she was commonly known.

_8_Dorothy dueled with Quatre onboard the Libra in the final episodes of the series, and when she stabs him with a fencing foil, she realizes that his views of war and humanity may not be wrong. Then, Trowa appears in the mobile doll control room and dismantles the system, deactivating all of the White Fang's troops. As he and Quatre leave, he tells her, "That's so sad … a woman who can't cry."

_9_In the episode introducing Sylvia Noventa, it is revealed that her grandmother resides on the island of Sicily.

-

* * *

A/N- Mariemaia returns here (she will most assuredly be a recurring character) and we're introduced to Trowa and Catherine. Also, Peter unexpectedly walked his way into this chapter.

And yes, footnotes seem like they'll be a permanent aspect of this story. While they aren't indispensable, I feel like they add dimension to a story that would otherwise feel flatter and less realistic. Plus, one of my pet peeves is when characters take long sojourns to explain things that end up just disrupting the flow. The footnotes are somewhat my way out of that predicament. Thank you for reading!


	7. Synergy, Part I

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

Some lines in the conversation at the _Society _banquet, particularly Sylvia Noventa's, are spoken by Ellsworth Toohey and other characters in The Fountainhead.

_Synergy means: the interaction of two or more agents or forces so that their combined effect is greater than the sum of their individual effects._

_

* * *

_

_Birth and Binding_ VI:

**Synergy, Part I**

by Terra

* * *

Quatre did not think of Dorothy often, but when he did, the thought was not a sudden recollection; it was the acknowledgement of a continuous presence that needed no acknowledgement. He wanted to see her. He knew where to find her. He waited. It amused him to wait, because he knew that the waiting was unbearable to her. He knew that his absence bound her to him in a manner more complete and humiliating than his presence could enforce. He was giving her time to attempt an escape, in order to let her know her own helplessness when he chose to see her again. She would know that the attempt itself had been of his choice, that it had been only another form of mastery. Then she would be ready either to kill him or to come to him of her own will. The two acts would be equal in her mind. He wanted her brought to this. He waited.

On a morning several days after he returned from L1, Layla quietly reminded him of his promise to accompany her to the _Society_ banquet. He sat in bed, reading the latest stock market numbers, his hands clasping the edge of the laptop to keep himself still. He was exhausted after thirteen hours spent in his office the previous day, and he thought he should be exhausted by the prospect of another day, but he could not feel it. He made his shoulders sag in an effort to achieve a relaxation that would not come. His long legs were spread apart, one straightened and resting on the bedspread, the other hanging down straight from the hip over the bed's edge, swing impatiently. It was so difficult these days to force himself to rest.

"I still feel uneasy traveling to Earth," Layla hesitated, "but some of the most important names in the industry will be there, not to mention all the _Society_ editors and writers."

"I'll go," he said abruptly.

She smiled brightly. "I'll probably have to wear some ludicrously expensive dress."

"That seems to be the custom."

Layla laughed. "All right, I can take the hint. I'll let you bury yourself in your work today."

When she left, Quatre remained sitting on the bed for a long time. He had decided to go to the party, because he knew that it would be the last of all places where Dorothy could wish to meet him again.

As she exited one of the Winner company cars, Layla recoiled in surprise when a stealthy paparazzi cameraman unexpectedly dived directly in her path and began snapping photographs of her. Immediately, she reflexively flung her hand over her face. Glancing desperately along the avenue of boutiques, she ran into the nearest one. She smiled triumphantly as a security guarded barred her pursuer's entry into the galleria. _How do celebrities,_ she wondered, _deal with constantly being stalked? _Layla was no stranger to the press, since she had inadvertently become famous by her romantic connection to Quatre many months ago, but she would never be able to adapt to the paparazzi aspect of her now alarmingly public life.

Casting one last nervous glance at the photographer lurking by the door, she was surprised to see that he had not ceased taking pictures of her. Then she cursed silently as she realized that the shelter she had run into was, ironically enough, a bridal shop. She could already envision the tantalizing headlines in tomorrow's tabloids. Since the damage was now irrevocable, she held her chin up high in false indifference and resigned herself to perusing the gowns in the boutique for something suitable to wear to the _Society_ banquet. When she emerged from the shop a little over an hour later, grimacing at the exorbitant price of her chosen dress, she forcefully parted the throng of paparazzi gathered outside the entrance.

Hailing and then stepping into the relative safety of a taxi cab, she promptly gave the driver the address of Quatre's penthouse suite. Compulsively smoothing the wrinkles of her beige dress suit as she leaned back comfortably against the headrest, she thought that it was unusual of Quatre to forget his appointments, especially if they were with her. He had not said anything, but she knew that Quatre was distracted recently by something that made him more absentminded, harder working and often led him to sit alone, unaware of his surroundings, in contemplation. She didn't approach him about her suspicions, because she knew that if he wasn't willing to volunteer his thoughts then likely, she had no business interfering. Their relationship was founded on an absence of demands. She refused to ask him for more than he was willing to give.

Smiling to herself, she thought that these travel plans had come at a perfect time. They both needed a vacation and a change of location to a sunny Mediterranean island would, she felt certain, rekindle their intimacy.

-

Dorothy returned to Sicily. Only a month had passed since her last visit to the Italian island. The elder Lady Noventa had invited her to the Palazzo dei Normanni – an ancient, picturesquely beautiful palace – for a nameless, faceless soiree of one kind or another._1_ She returned without purpose, merely because she could not stay on Majorca without seeing Trowa Barton and she would not stay there with Peter. She had to be in another part of the world; it was a sudden necessity, irresistible and senseless. She expected nothing of the city of Palermo. But she wanted the feeling of the streets and the buildings holding her there. In the morning, when she awakened and heard the muffled din of the crowd below, the sound was a humiliation, a reminder of where she was and why.

She went out alone for long walks. She had to be out in the streets, blank, purposeless for hours at a time. She had always hated the streets of a city. She saw the faces swirling past her, the faces made alike by fear – fear of themselves, fear of all and of another, fear making them ready to pounce upon whatever was held sacred by anyone they met. But she had always felt its presence. She had kept herself clean and free in a single passion – to touch nothing. She had liked facing them in the streets; she had liked the impotence of their hatred, because she offered them nothing to be hurt. But she was not free any longer. Each step through the streets hurt her now.

She was tied to him – as he was tied to every part of the city, as he was tied to every part of any city. He was lost somewhere in these crowds, dependent on them, to be hurt by any one of them, to be shared by her with the whole world. She hated the thought of him on the sidewalks people had used. She hated the thought of a bum begging him for change. She hated the elbows touching his arms in an elevator. She hated Quatre Raberba Winner, because she could not forget in all the years that had passed the connection they shared. An understanding that should have faded as her body matured and her mind grew sharper, but did not. She never forgot.

"Dorothy, did you know that I've just signed off on quite the investment in the resource mining industry?" asked Peter as he adjusted his cufflinks in front of the mirror of their hotel suite. He had studied her articles for _Society_ and discovered her immense dislike for the heir to the Winner Empire. He added keenly: "A few fellows and I have decided to give Winner a run for his money."

"Is that so?" she inquired politely.

"Well, I have it on the best authority that industry insiders are looking to mine Jupiter's moons. Winner's practically monopolized the best ore mines in the asteroid belt, so the savvy entrepreneurs are moving ahead of him."_2_

"Have you been to see the moons of Jupiter?"

"Gods, no!" Peter stared at her, at a loss. "Whatever for? I wouldn't be caught dead on such a backwater settlement."

"Perhaps that's the difference between you and Mr. Winner." Her voice was flat, as if commenting on a weather forecast. "He routinely visits his resource satellites and trusts no authority but his own."

"Dorothy," he insisted earnestly. "You don't know this business like I do. Everyone is rushing to snatch up every last acre of Europa before Winner can._3_ If I waited any longer, all the best lots would be taken."

"Of course, Peter." She turned towards the mirror and carelessly fastened a thickly plaited diamond necklace around her neck. It hung like a sparkling noose.

-

"There is nothing as useless, my dear André," said Sylvia Noventa, "as a rich woman who makes herself a profession of entertaining. But then, all useless things have charm. Like aristocracy, for instance, the most useless conception of all."

André Seward looked at their hostess bewilderingly. "But…Sylvia…"

"Oh, I've said something shocking," she smiled, taking his hand, "so you may safely ignore me on that ground."

"Never start an argument with Lady Sylvia," advised Merle Winthrop, Countess of Wessex, a tall woman wearing a necklace of large diamonds, the size of the teeth she bared when she smiled. "It's no use. We're beaten in advance."

"Argument, Lady Winthrop," she said, "is one of the things that has neither use nor charm. Leave it to the men of brains. Brains, of course, are a dangerous confession of weakness. It has been said that men develop brains when they have failed in everything else."

"Now you don't mean that at all," said Mrs. Winthrop, although she smiled acceptingly as if it were the pleasant truth. She took possession of Sylvia and led her away as a prize stolen from André Seward who had turned aside for a moment to greet new guests. "But people of intellect are such children. They're so sensitive. One must pamper people like you."

"I wouldn't do that, Lady Winthrop. We'll take advantage of it. And to display one's brain is so vulgar. It's even more vulgar than to display one's wealth."

"Oh dear, you would say that, wouldn't you. Now, I've heard that you're some sort of a radical, but I won't take it seriously. Not one bit. How do you like that?"

Sylvia laughed delightedly. "I like it very much."

"You can't fool me. You can't make me think that you're one of the dangerous kind. The dangerous kind are all dirty and use bad grammar. And you have such a beautiful voice!"

"Whatever made you think that I aspired to be dangerous, Lady Winthrop? I'm merely – how shall I put it? – that mildest of all things, a conscience. Your own conscience, conveniently personified in the body of another person and attending to your concern for the less fortunate of this world, thus leaving you free of such concerns." Sylvia leaned in, as if sharing a confidence. "That's what I've always felt politicians ought to be."

"What a marvelous idea! I don't know whether it's horrible or very wise."

"Both, Lady Winthrop. As is all wisdom." Sylvia guided her companion to the clutches of another group and moved across the ballroom. She looked up at the glass ceiling, left untouched above the chandeliers, and she noted how far it was above the guests, how dominant and undisturbed. The huge crowd of guests did not dwarf her hall; it stood over them like the lid of a jewel case, unnecessarily large over a flat bottom holding a single small gem. The guests moved in a whirlpool, with her at the center. She was a familiar face, even to those guests who had never seen Sylvia Noventa. She possessed that quality of radiating warmth and inclusiveness that drew people to her like moths to a flame.

She told a somber young female who wore glasses and a low-cut evening gown: "Darling, you will never be more than a dilettante of the intellect, unless you submerge yourself in some cause greater than yourself."

She said to an obese gentleman with a face turning purple in the heat of an argument: "But, my friend, I might not like it either. I merely said that such happens to be the inevitable course of history. And who are you or I to oppose the course of history?"

Those around her were saying: "Isn't she witty? And such courage!"

Sylvia found Peter Weyridge smiling fiercely, entertaining at the center of a small group of people. He was saying, "The Winner monopoly's over. After all, why should one man have so much wealth? He ought to share it with the rest of us."

"Now, that's a wonderful idea if I've ever heard one," Sylvia interrupted, her voice flowing naturally, as if she had been present throughout the entire conversation, "but here we are, living in this dreadful democracy. Those enlightened are quite overrun by the duller masses."

Peter laughed like a boy emerging from a stream on a summer day, invigorated, restless with energy. "Sylvia, I was beginning to worry that you were ignoring me. We haven't seen each other since the receiving line."_4_

"Happy, Peter? You're quite the sensation tonight. But there's someone here, though, who seems to be ignoring you quite flagrantly, isn't she?"

He winced, wondering whether it was so obvious to everyone. "That's not true. We came together, after all. It's not necessary to spend every moment with each other."

"Regrettable," she continued, as if she had not heard him. "I've always had the absurd idea that it would take a most unusual man to attract Dorothy Catalonia. So, of course, I thought of you. Just an idle thought. Still, you know, the man who'll get her will have something you won't be able to match. He'll beat you there."

Peter snapped, "No one's got her."

"No, undoubtedly not. Not yet. That's rather astonishing. Oh, I suppose it will take an extraordinary kind of man."

"What are you saying? You don't even like Dorothy Catalonia. Do you?"

"I never said I did." Sylvia smiled enigmatically. "Oh, but there she is now. Standing quite alone."

Dorothy stood uncompromising straight, swathed in a motionless sheer silk gown. When they approached, she made no effort to ignore them. She turned to them and said with monotonous precision: "Peter. Sylvia."

Sylvia leaned over and clasped her hands. "Dorothy, I'm honored you've deigned to make an appearance. I've been made to understand that you hate these sorts of gatherings."

She laughed gaily. "If you know that much, Sylvia, it's a wonder you didn't expect me."

Peter tried to interject, but found to his astonishment that he could not. He felt helpless. Both of the women were smiling and saying the appropriate things, yet there was a dangerous fragility in the exchange, as if one wrong word would unleash some frightening truth he was not prepared to accept. Glancing away desperately, his eyes darted involuntarily to the entrance in time to see the infamous Quatre Raberba Winner enter the ballroom, accompanied by a forgettable brunette on his arm. He asked stupidly, "What's Winner doing here?"

Sylvia's face belied her surprise and then she was in motion, determined to intercept the other guests who had recovered from shock quickly enough to begin ambushing this unexpected guest. She managed to meet them at the doorway. "Mr. Winner, it's a pleasure."

He spoke softly, with unintended intensity, "Likewise. Lady Noventa, we thank you for your hospitality."

She was certain that he intended no insolence; it was not in his voice nor his manner, but insolence had been her first impression of him. He wore evening clothes and they looked well on his tall, thin figure, but somehow it seemed that he did not belong in them. Then, she realized with a start, her mistake: the formal attire fit him so acutely that it had seemed strange to her, because suddenly, it was her other guests – the upper crust of Earth society – who looked preposterous in their gaudy gowns and ostentatious tuxedos. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dorothy standing with Peter, quite a distance apart from the crowd. She did not look out of place. Instead, it was the crowd who looked awkward, each guest fervently seeking another warm body for protection from the scrutiny of solitude.

She found herself saying, "Whom do you want to meet first? There's Dorothy Catalonia looking at us. I'll be glad to introduce you."

Quatre turned; he saw Dorothy standing across the room. There was no expression on her face, not even an effort to avoid expression; it was strange to see a human face presented as a simple anatomical feature, with no meaning, like an arm or a leg. She looked at them as they approached. Her feet stood spread oddly, as if there were no floor around her, but the few square inches under her soles and she were safe so long as she did not move or look down. He felt that she seemed too fragile to stand the brutality of what he was doing, but she was silently telling him that she would stand it. Sylvia's voice sounded disembodied, unimportant: "Lady Catalonia, may I present Quatre Raberba Winner?"

Dorothy felt as if she were caught in a dreamlike sequence. But his face was civilly blank and she was saying correctly: "How do you do, Mr. Winner."

"How do you do, Lady Catalonia." Quatre bowed solemnly, and then raised the arm anchored in the grasp of the woman beside him. "May I present Miss Layla al-Nahdiyah." In turn, she bowed.

Then Dorothy smiled; the correct, perfunctory smile with which one greets an introduction. She said, "How do you do, Miss al-Nahdiyah." She turned towards Peter. "My escort, Lord Peter Keating Weyridge." He held out his hand, which Quatre shook politely.

When the salutations concluded, Dorothy continued, "Mr. Winner, I recently had the great pleasure of speaking with your architect. May I commend you on a most unusual choice. There is no doubt in my mind that no one will be able to mistake Winner Tower when it is completed."

"That was my hope."

She inclined her head graciously. "Miss al-Nahdiyah, I must compliment you on your gown. It's very bold...don't you agree, Peter? One gets so tired of seeing the same designer."

Peter looked startled at being asked to participate in the conversation. He murmured, "Yes, it's very different."

Layla fingered the layers of her red neo-Victorian gown and blushed prettily. "Oh! Thank you. Yours is very beautiful, too, Lady Catalonia."

"Please, call me Dorothy."

"Well…then, you must call me Layla."

Sylvia thought that she had been mistaken. Standing between them, she had observed nothing strange in the meeting; in fact, there simply was nothing. She felt annoyed that Dorothy did not speak of architecture, as one would have expected her to do. She concluded regretfully that the Catalonia heiress disliked this man, as she disliked most people she met. She raised her hand and touched Peter's elbow. She said, "Peter, I believe I see Hadrian Kaiser from the judiciary. I know you've been wanting an introduction."

He looked at her gratefully. He blurted, "Yes! If Dorothy doesn't mind, of course."

"I don't." Dorothy consented gravely. She watched their hasty departure for a long silent moment. Then, she turned to find Quatre looking straight at her, very politely, as any man would have looked, meeting her for the first time. She wished she could find some hint in his face, if only a hint of his old knowing smile; even mockery would be an acknowledgement and a tie. She found nothing. He spoke as a stranger. He allowed no reality, but that of a man introduced to her in a ballroom, flawlessly obedient to every convention of social etiquette. She thought that this was his form of mockery, after what he had not forgotten and would not acknowledge. She thought that he wanted her to be first to name it; he would bring her to the humiliation of accepting the past – by being first to utter the world recalling it to reality, because he knew that she could not leave it unrecalled.

He spoke first: "Are you attending as a writer or a sponsor, Lady Catalonia?"

"I'm a _Society _columnist."

"Quatre, she's quite famous in journalism circles." Layla smiled shyly. "She's done some brilliant pieces, especially on the conditions in the Brussels housing projects after the Poor Man's Fire. I expect you'll be up for an award today."

Dorothy replied graciously: "Thank you, but I'm not successful by half compared to you."

"That's not true!" she protested. "I could never do investigative journalism."

"I'm curious. How would you measure success?" asked Quatre.

"In our profession, you're successful if it leaves you untouched."

"How does one achieve that?"

"In one of two ways: by not looking at people at all or by looking at everything about them."

"Which is preferable, Lady Catalonia?"

"Whichever is hardest."

"But a desire to choose the hardest might be a confession of weakness in itself," said Quatre.

"Of course, Mr. Winner. But it's the least offensive form of confession."

Before he could answer, someone came flying through the crowd, and an arm fell about Quatre's shoulders. It was a Romefeller business associate. "Winner, well of all people to see here!" he cried. "So glad, so glad! Ages, hasn't it been? Listen, I want to talk to you! Let me have him for a moment, Lady Catalonia." He suddenly saw Layla. "Miss, if you don't mind?"

Layla numbly shook her head. She released Quatre's arm and he bowed to them, his arms at his sides, a strand of hair falling forward, so that she did not see his face, but only the blond head bowed courteously for a moment, and he followed the other man into the crowd. She was startled when Dorothy said, "You learn not to mind it."

She admitted, "I'm afraid I'm still not used to this life."

"Few of us are. It's when you begin to enjoy it that people start questioning your sanity."

"So much of it still seems surreal to me." Layla smiled, relieved. "Earlier, when I was shopping for a dress, I was practically attacked by the paparazzi. I had to escape into a bridal shop. I can just imagine the headlines that I left behind."

Dorothy laughed easily. Cocking her head, she asked with appropriate interest: "Is an engagement forthcoming?"

"Oh! No, definitely not."

"Why so adamant?"

"I just mean, I wouldn't want to tie him down right now. And we're still so young. I have so many unfulfilled dreams. I'm not ready yet for children or to become the matriarch of the Winner family. Goodness knows there's enough Winner women already."_5_

"What kinds of dreams?"

Layla hesitated. "Well, for one, I want to publish a novel one day."

"I doubt you'd find one publisher right now who would refuse you anything."

"Yes, but they wouldn't want my work for its own merits. I know it seems silly to waste this opportunity, but I don't want to use Quatre's name. It seems dishonest somehow."

Dorothy smiled radiantly. "I thought I would like you. I'm glad I wasn't wrong."

Astonished, looking at the Lady Catalonia, Layla was struck with a feeling of familiarity. Absurdly, this blond, grey-eyed woman, whom she had never met before, reminded her powerfully of Quatre: they were similarly colored, but the resemblance went beyond physical features. It took a few moments longer for her to realize that there was something pure and pristine about them, an otherness that was painfully alike.

-

Hours later, when the party began to wind down, Dorothy slipped quietly out of the ballroom. She found herself at the mouth of a wide hallway that slowly narrowed, winding towards a set of ornately carved double doors at its end. Curious, she stepped through the doorway to discover a library.

The room was grandiose – its colossal windows unblinking eyes to the breathtaking Eden without and flanked by voluminous shelves, a testament to millennia of man's tangible legacy. Dorothy never cared for electronic books. For her, the physical sensation of turning a page, of soiling the cover with her fingerprints was proof that she had read it, that the book existed and that she, too, would become part of the work's history, along with all those who had read it before her. It was that history which haunted her when she found that she loved a book. Thinking of all those who had ridiculed the text, fouled it with their ignorance and insulted each word with their indifference, Dorothy knew that she could not bear sharing such greatness a second time. She never opened again a book she loved.

The room – with its lofty ceilings, luxurious cushions, and plush carpet – was arranged curiously similarly to her late grandfather's library at Palais du Dermail._6_ As a child, she had spent endless hours in that library: losing herself in other people's dreams, learning to horde loneliness, to forget that her father had abandoned her. When the Duke had time for her, they often convened there and conversed over a game of chess. Her grandfather had taught her to love the game and she, in turn, inherited his ruthless style of play. Every encounter on the chessboard was dramatic, full of the Duke's flair for the theatrical, and Dorothy learned that the closer she came to loss the better she played.

Her grandfather trained her to conquer; every move, derisive and mocking in order to undermine and ultimately, dominate the other player. Duke Dermail played not to win, but to cripple. Dorothy frequently lost to her grandfather, but it didn't bother her, because she was never defeated the same way again and, because she found losing battles mesmerizing. She liked to see her own reaction to desperation and oftentimes, admired the brilliance her more capable opponents exhibited under that pressure. There was something beautiful in losing and, in the process, tasting the fruits of one's potential.

Sweeping across the room, her eyes unconsciously sought the object of her thoughts and rested on an ornamental crystal chess set on a center table. Several black and white pieces lay discarded in a pile to the side, evidence of an evenly matched struggle. The game had not been completed. A white knight reared poised to checkmate, but the rumpled pillows and careless arrangement of the board gave her the impression of a hasty departure. Most likely, two servants had been playing, but were interrupted. Dorothy lifted the thwarted white piece and knocked over the black king.

She smiled wryly, in memory of another unfinished game. Only on that evening, her escape from the festivities had been observed and she was discovered in the library by her cousin. Younger than him by nine years, she had been in awe of the handsome, charismatic Treize Khushrenada. She spent most of her days in the company of the family matrons, unnoticed, being too unimportant to warrant special attention. Hearing them gossip about her mysterious cousin, she knew that he was someone worth meeting. That night, within moments of encountering him, she had discerned the charisma that enveloped him like a second skin and staring into his perceptive liquid blue eyes, realized that he was a man she could respect. Suspecting that punishment would be forthcoming if he turned her in, she challenged him to a chess game. Confident in her ability, she set the terms: if he lost, he would keep silent.

After hearing her demand, Treize laughed, a resoundingly joyous sound. Then, he told her: "For one so young, you drive a hard bargain. Very well."

"Don't be fooled by how I look!" she declared. "I'm already eight years old."

"Indeed. My mistake." He smiled. When they had seated themselves beside a chess set in the library, he asked, "Black or white?"

"Black." As a rule, Dorothy made the first move, but this time, she was curious about this newfound relation of hers. He was seventeen, but already rising in rank in the Alliance, much, she had heard, to the great displeasure of his elders. She noticed immediately an odd graceful air about him; it would take Dorothy many years to understand that her cousin was burdened by a terrible truth – a keen awareness of people that surpassed that of the foremost leaders of their day.

Treize opened by moving his king pawn forward two spaces. She mirrored his move with her own pawn. She knew that this illustrious man shared her grandfather's love of opera, of the great drama. The Duke, too, had on occasion grudgingly acknowledged Treize's prodigy. She felt certain that his style would hover on the melodramatic, rising to a climax before ensnaring an opponent in the throes of his carefully orchestrated denouement. She was disappointed when his next move placed his king's bishop parallel to his pawn. As she countered, he continued to play the standard opening moves in a nonchalant, almost careless manner. Was this the real Treize? She knew it could not be, not if any of the rumors were to be believed. Surely, he was just biding his time for an operatic finale. Caught in her thoughts, she saw the end much too late to stop it.

"Checkmate," he said, moving his queen into position. Then, as if to drive home a point Dorothy had failed to see, he reached over and toppled her king with one elegant finger.

"…oh!" she cried, frustrated. The moves she had thought too trite to suit his character had indeed been a disguise for something else, but it was not the dramatic finish she had expected. Dorothy had been fooled by the oldest trick in the book: the four move checkmate. It was a crude type of move that made quick work of novices. Only Treize hadn't completed it in four moves; he had patiently feinted, capturing her attention on one side of the board while his queen prepared to overtake the other.

"You were expecting something else." His amused voice, smooth as velvet, stated rather than asked.

"Yes," she admitted begrudgingly.

"Dorothy, you lost, because you overestimated me. The people who defeat us won't always be our betters." His smile was rueful. "Especially for us."

"What do you mean?"

"You and I, we value action and ability. We demand proof of such from those who want to rule us. And in this world, we are a rare breed. Dorothy, there are so few of us who will fight for our beliefs."

She felt uncomfortable under his piercing gaze, but there was nothing that could've induced her to look away. "What do you believe in?"

"That someday we'll live without the stench of fear," said Treize, "without the desire to cripple those of greater ability, without the shame of a bystander. Without soldiers to fight for us, because we will fight for ourselves."

Caught in the majesty of his words, she whispered, "When will that be?"

"That's for you to decide, Dorothy," he said gently. "But you mustn't be afraid of them."

She repeated slowly: "Afraid of them?"

"Of those who are not your equals, of those who seek to destroy you, because you want to save them." His words were tender, captivating in intensity. "Don't let them hurt you."

"Treize," she tested the unfamiliar syllables of his name. Staring solemnly at him, she said, "I won't."

In the percipient silence that followed, the heavy oak doors to the library had swung open and a servant had called her out. Her absence had been noticed by her grandfather, who impatiently summoned her. Cocooned in nostalgia, Dorothy recalled her sharp pang of disappointment when she had been forced to leave Treize's company. Returning to the present, she glanced at her wristwatch and knew that she would soon be missed. Regretfully, Dorothy loosened her grip on the white knight and watched it fall, clattering hollowly against the crystal of the chessboard.

* * *

-

_1_The Palazzo dei Normanni in Palermo was the seat of the Kings of Sicily. It is the ancestral home of the Noventa family.

_2_The asteroid belt is a region of the solar system falling roughly between the planets Mars and Jupiter where the greatest concentration of asteroid orbits can be found.

_3_Europa is a moon of the planet Jupiter. It is the sixth nearest moon to Jupiter, and the fourth largest of Jupiter's moons. Due to the hypothesized ocean beneath its icy surface, Europa is one of the most likely places in the solar system to host primitive extraterrestrial life.

_4_A receiving line is a line of people formed (usually comprised of the hosts) to greet arriving guests individually, as at a formal gathering.

_5_Quatre has thirty elder sisters. He is the only male and, thus, sole heir to the Winner fortune.

_6_Located at Argeles sur Mer in French Catalonia (just north of the Spanish border), Palais du Dermail is the main Dermail estate. While the Catalonia family hailed from Spain, the Dermails' ancestors were French. Upon Duke Dermail's death, the duchy and all its peripheral properties were passed down to Dorothy, as next of kin.

-

* * *

A/N- Sylvia returns here (and she, too, will be a recurring character) along with Peter and Layla. And most unexpectedly, Treize Khushrenada somehow wandered into the picture. When I was writing this chapter, I had no idea that it would end up being so long, so I divided it into two parts. As usual, footnotes are here for your convenience. Thank you for reading!


	8. Synergy, Part II

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

Much of the dialogue and philosophy in this chapter is directly from The Fountainhead and Ayn Rand's philosophy of objectivism.

_Synergy means: the interaction of two or more agents or forces so that their combined effect is greater than the sum of their individual effects._

_

* * *

_

_Birth and Binding_ VI:

**Synergy, Part II**

by Terra

* * *

There was another person, that night, abnormally aware of Quatre Raberba Winner's presence, who became aware from the moment he had entered the room. Sylvia had never set eyes on him in person, but she stood looking at him for a long time. Then, she moved through the crowd, and smiled at her friends. But between smiles and sentences, her eyes went back to the man with blond hair and sharply alert eyes. She looked at him as she looked occasionally at the pavement beneath a window on the fiftieth floor, wondering about her own body were it to be hurled down to the pavement below.

Sylvia did not have to know his name, his profession or his past; it was incidental that she did happen to know these things. No one was ever a real man of flesh and blood to her, but only a force. She never saw men, so she could not now look away from him, because he was force personified in a human body. He was his own motive, his own power. For the rest of the evening, whenever some figure obstructed her view of any person or any thing, her head would jerk impatiently to find him again. She did not want to look at him. She had to look, just as she always had to look down at that distant pavement, dreading the sight. That evening, Sylvia Noventa was conscious of no one, but Quatre Winner. She knew that he did not remember that she even existed in the room.

She jerked away violently – a broken motion of desperation. She found Peter walking towards her, his body slumped; he wore a self-effacing expression. It jarred her to realize that she was just now recalling his presence. In the few years of their acquaintance, Sylvia frequently forgot his existence. He always came to her for minor advice, for self-affirmation like an engine running on her energy for which he would have to stop for refueling once in a while. When they were in the same city, he would not go to the theater without consulting her about the play. He would not attend a dinner party without asking her opinion of its host. Once, he was involved with a girl who was intelligent, funny and lively. She found it amusing to test her influence over him by disapproving of the girl. To her disappointed satisfaction, Peter dropped her at once.

When he needed advice, he asked for it briefly, anxious to claim nothing, but the waste scraps of her time. So she looked at him, surprised, when he ambled beside her. He said helplessly: "Sylvia, I feel wrong."

She asked in her gentlest voice, "What is the matter?"

"I don't know!"

"Now, darling, that doesn't sound like you at all."

"It's – it's this damnable party. I'm just no good." His eyes shone pleadingly. "I didn't want to say it. Especially not to you, because it isn't your fault. It's not just tonight that I feel this way. But it's just – it's just that I've got to have somebody listen."

"Peter, darling, first of all, why are you so frightened? You mustn't be. Certainly not of speaking to me. Just relax, be yourself and tell me what happened."

He raked a hand through his hair frustratingly. "That's one thing I didn't want to say, but you guessed. I am frightened. Because – well, you see, you just said, be yourself…and what I'm afraid of most is of being myself. Because I'm vicious."

Sylvia laughed, not offensively, but warmly, the sound destroying his statement. "But Peter, you're the most harmless person I know."

"No, it's true. I'll try to explain. I've been acting like a fool, because I've wanted an escape. I'm unhappy. I'm unhappy in such a horrible…unclean way. And it's so dishonest. I go for days, afraid to think, to look at myself. And that's wrong. It's…I've become a hypocrite. I always wanted to be honest with myself. But I'm not, I'm not!"

"Don't shout, Peter," she admonished. "You won't like it if the other guests hear you."

"But that's not at all," he whispered, "I don't know. I can't understand it. When I'm honest with myself, I know that the only emotion I've felt for years is being tired."

"Just why are you unhappy?"

He spoke, his voice lower, the words coming with greater effort: "I don't know. I feel so lost and it's doing something horrible to me. I'm beginning to hate people, Sylvia. I hate – I hate in a cruel and mean and petty way I've never been before. I hate…" his voice wavered and then rose in a crescendo in realization, "…Dorothy. I hate every moment I'm with her. She's so goddamn indifferent and I haven't got any hold on her at all. Sometimes, I find myself wanting to hurt her, hurt her somehow until she finally looks at me."

Sylvia asked quietly, "Is that all?"

"It's not just that, but I expect people to be grateful to me. I demand gratitude. I find myself liking only those who are servile. I resent it when people argue with me. I feel that they have no right to minds of their own, that I know best as if I'm the final authority for them. My sister…we were all worried about her, because she was running around with a hoodlum," he confessed. "I tortured her for weeks about it, telling her how he'd get her in trouble or pregnant and then leave her. Well, they eloped and they're the happiest couple I've ever seen. Do you think I'm glad? No, I'm furious and I'm barely civil to her when I see her.

"Then there was a close friend of mine. He's a gentleman through and through, but he likes to spend money a bit too freely. He's just about squandered his inheritance and he needed a job desperately and I promised that I'd get him one. Before I could find it, he got a good job all by himself. I wasn't pleased. I was sore as hell that he had done it without my help."

She repeated, "Is that all?"

Peter shook his head hopelessly. "A few minutes ago, I was speaking to a Romefeller businessman who wanted a stake in Winner's resource satellites and I was discouraging him, telling him to invest in Jupiter's moons instead. And suddenly, I realized that it was because I had wanted so much to ally myself with Winner once, but he didn't want me and so I wasn't going to let that man get it, either … even though it would hurt my mining operation on Europa if he became my competitor."

When he saw that she would not say anything – was, in fact, waiting silently, he continued frantically: "It's despicable…but recently, I've begun hating anyone of ability…like Winner. I've come to resent his genius, because why should he have it all? When I see him, I just want to tear apart everything he has. But it won't make any difference, because he'll just rebuild it all. He's that kind of man. You can't beat a man like that. And I'm – I'm not good enough to do it honestly."

Sylvia said softly, reproachfully, "Do you want to know what I think?"

"Yes – yes, I need you so much now."

"Peter, you've given the answer yourself, in the things you said." He lifted his eyes blankly. "What have you been complaining about? It was the most egotistical speech I've ever heard in my life."

"What?"

"It was all about you, Peter. About nothing, but what you are or think or feel or have or haven't got – you're just a common egoist."

"But if I haven't got any…ego, any self-respect…how can I be anything?"

"Why must you be anything? That's your problem: you must forget how important Peter Weyridge is. Because, you see, he isn't. Men are important only in relation to other men, in their usefulness, in the service they render. Unless you understand that completely, you can expect nothing, but one form of misery or another." Sylvia laughed aloud, her voice serene and belittling. "Why make a cosmic tragedy out of the fact that you've found yourself feeling cruel toward people? So what? Do you imagine yourself to be a Shakespearean hero of some kind? Because you're not, Peter. No one has the right to be a hero, to distinguish himself from his fellow man. You're not special and neither are your problems. No one ought to consider himself special. That's the ultimate supposition of the ego and we're all poisoned by it."

He stood still, composed, but somehow he looked like something crushed and broken. He whispered obediently: "Yes, Sylvia…I – I didn't think of it that way. I always feel so small after talking to you. But it's right to feel that way, because I am…small."

She cradled the crook of his elbow to steady him. She said soothingly, "Remember, Peter, no one likes it when anyone's too much of an individual. We are all weakened by contrast when someone tries to act better than his brothers, tries to do something heroic. Such conceit is unbecoming of mankind."

-

He watched Dorothy quietly leave the ballroom. Quatre's immediate thought was to follow her and after a casual glance, discovered Layla conversing animatedly with a fellow book reviewer. He strode across the ballroom and walked out into the hallway where he had seen her exit. It was vacant, but there was a set of intricately carved wooden double-doors at the far end of the hall and one door was not completely closed, held ajar by the momentum of a moving body. When he stepped into the library, and saw her standing before a large window, the garden's lamplight outside illuminating her figure and casting her in a golden aureola, he felt rather than saw her surprise._1_ His eyes fell on the chess pieces lying in disarray by her hand.

He said, as if he had not walked in on her, as if he had been the one waiting: "Do you play chess, Miss Dorothy?"

Dorothy's sharp grey-blue eyes bore into his bluer ones. Then she sat down on the cushioned divan, her back straight and confident, pride carved in the slim set of her shoulders, lessened in severity only by the gentle clasp of her hands on her lap. She answered simply, "Yes."

His black leather dress shoes stepped soundlessly against the plush carpeting as he approached. He chose the seat opposite her. "Black or white?"

"White." Opening with her queen pawn, she moved it two spaces forward.

When he countered with his kingside bishop pawn, she immediately recognized the opening. It was famous for its combative nature. He was not merely playing for equality, but for advantage. Dorothy said bitterly: "How appropriate. The Sicilian Defense, as a tribute to our lovely hostess."_2_

"If you had chosen black, I would've opened with the Catalan. Forget Sylvia Noventa. I prefer to honor you."_3_

"Don't—" she stopped abruptly. Looking at the calm knowledge in his expression, she realized suddenly that he was mocking her. He knew that she hated his kindness. He was being kind to show her that he understood; that he had always known this about her; that she was transparent to him; and that he was dominant.

"Your move." His blank tone irritated her, because it brooked no argument, held no room for doubt. She was helpless to answer him. Wordlessly, she moved a knight. As the game progressed, and her every aggressive move was countered equally violently, she understood that Quatre wanted her brought to her knees.

When he saw the recognition in her eyes, he said, "I expected you tonight."

At his words, she slowly raised her arm and her hand reached to touch his face. He did not move, neither away nor towards her. In a wrenching motion, she swept her arm across the chessboard instead, viciously scattering the pieces across the table. Her voice was steady in finality, as if she no longer cared to deny him, when she said, "You know that I hate you, Quatre. I hate you for what you are, for wanting you, for having to want you. I'm going to fight you…and I'm going to destroy you…and I'm going to pray that you can't be destroyed, even though I believe in nothing and have nothing to pray to."

Quatre sat deep in his chair, his body relaxed, and taut in relaxation, a stillness being filled slowly with the promise of future motion. "I know it."

"I want to live as you live. Not to touch my money – I'd give it away to anyone, even to Sylvia Noventa's election campaign fund; it doesn't matter, but I can't choose your way over the world's reality. Quatre, try to understand, please try to understand. I can't bear to see what they're doing to you, what they're going to do when they realize you're a Gundam pilot. You're moving to some terrible kind of disaster. It can't end any other way. Give it up. Run…just leave."

"Dorothy." The way he pronounced the name remained with her and made it easier to hear the words that followed: "I wish I could tell you that it was a temptation, at least for a moment. But it wasn't."

She whispered, "Quatre, there was a man talking to you out there today, and he was smiling at you, the fool, the terrible fool. I wanted to tell that man: don't look at him, you'll have no right to want to look at anything else, don't like him, you'll have to hate the rest of the world, it's like that, you damn fool, one or the other, not together…"

"I told you before. I'll tell you again: you're so afraid of the world, you've chosen to concede in the worst way."

"Quatre, I can accept anything, except what seems to be the easiest for most people: the halfway, the almost, the just-about, the in-between. They may have their justifications. I don't know. I've been told I can't understand, because I'm a hater of mankind."

He asked quietly, "Do you believe that?"

"I don't know."

"It's the person who loves everybody who is the true hater of mankind. He expects nothing of men, so no form of depravity can outrage him."

"You mean the person who says that there's some good in the worst of us?"

"I mean the person who claims that he loves equally the clean, steady, intrepid eyes of a man of ability and the empty stare of an imbecile. Is it you who hate mankind, Dorothy?"

"You're saying all the things that—" she took a shuddering breath, "since I began to see and think…"

"Have been torturing you. You're not wrong. One can't love the best in man without distinguishing him from most of the creatures who pretend to bear his name."

"What will you say if I give you the answer people usually give me – that love is forgiveness?" She added: "Or that love is pity?"

"My answer is that love is reverence, and worship, and glory, and the upward glance. Not a bandage for festering wounds." Quatre spoke effortlessly, his lack of strain creating a sense of comfort between them. "Love is the desire to elevate the self, and subsequently, humankind; it's not love to cower behind the masses. It's about 'I' instead of 'we,' because there can be nothing without acknowledging the 'I' first. No creation, no progress, no salvation."

"I wonder if that's why you and I love skyscrapers. For their skyward reach."

"When I see the city – the skyline of any modern city – from my window, I don't think how small I am. I feel pride that our small bodies created such monoliths. What you and I love about skyscrapers is the creative faculty, the heroic in man." His voice softened, steadied in conviction. "Years ago, I felt that if a war came to threaten those buildings and the people who built and lived in them, I would do anything, pilot any weapon, sacrifice any part of my body to protect them. I can't feel ashamed that I did."

Dorothy smiled mournfully. "When feeling and living as you do won't mean forsaking everything else, I'll make my peace with the world."

The motion he had suspended since her confession manifested itself in the tenderness of his words: "You're beautiful, Dorothy. You're the only person I've ever met who matches inside and out. But it's also your curse, because you can't ignore people who have no integrity."

"Yes," she whispered. She stood and leaned toward him as involuntarily as a sapling in the presence of the sun. Cradling his face with her hands, she said gently: "Destroy Sylvia Noventa. Go after her and don't rest until you've erased every last trace of her."

"I've said this before. I don't think of people like her."

"You don't realize it, but when the time comes, it's her you'll have to fight. It's not her popularity. It's the special nature of it. You can't fight her on her terms. She's like a corrosive gas – the kind that eats lungs out. I don't know what her weapon is or how she uses it or what she's after, but she wants – she wants control over men, over the world if she's given the opportunity."

Quatre enclosed her hands in his larger, calloused ones. "Dorothy, until you can forget about Sylvia Noventa, don't stop trying to destroy me. It will be better than what you're doing to yourself right now."

-

Layla scanned the ballroom again. She hadn't been mistaken. Quatre was nowhere in sight. She almost jumped when a voice behind her inquired, "Miss al-Nahdiyah, are you looking for Mr. Winner?"

Turning around, she found herself facing the illustrious hostess of the banquet. "Y-yes. You haven't seen him by any chance, have you?"

"No, I'm afraid not." Sylvia smiled gregariously. "However, I wouldn't worry. I'm sure he'll turn up soon."

"Yes, of course, you're right. Lady Noventa, I must thank you again for the hospitality. This banquet has been so enjoyable."

"Please, we're all friends here. Hardly anyone uses my title. I find formalities stuffy and unwieldy. I insist that you call me Sylvia."

"Alright, but only if I'll be Layla to you."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Sylvia casually perused the room. "This is intriguing. Just a short while ago, someone was missing Lady Catalonia as well. And come to think of it, I don't see her, either. It's much too early for anyone to have left. Perhaps the two of them are together somewhere?"

Layla admitted hesitantly, "It's possible…but I don't think Quatre has ever met Lady Catalonia before."

"Well, in my experience, friendships," she said sagaciously, "and even relationships, are made and broken all the time at these kinds of social functions."

"W-well, I guess that's true, too."

"Oh, dear, now I've made you uncomfortable." Sylvia placed a gloved hand demurely over her mouth. She declared, "Don't heed anything I say. I tend to be entirely too honest. I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason why they've disappeared."

"Oh! I see him now," she added hastily, "thank you for keeping me company, but I must excuse myself to speak with Quatre." Layla smiled apologetically and walked toward the doorway he had just entered through.

Sylvia inclined her head slightly to acknowledge the dismissal. She was not surprised when a minute later, Dorothy appeared in the same entrance. She had placed herself by the door in wait. She stood smiling, watching Dorothy's face attentively. "You're much too obvious."

She turned. "What do you mean?"

"Do give me credit for discernment somewhat equal to yours," drawled Sylvia. "I've always told you that we should be good friends. We have so much in common intellectually. We start from ideologically opposite poles, but that makes no difference, because we meet in the same point."

"What are you driving at?"

"For instance, it was interesting to discover that you have an interest in Mr. Winner."

Dorothy said slowly: "If…if you can see what you're talking about, you can't be what you are."

"No. I must be what I am, precisely because of what I see."

"You know, Sylvia, you're much worse than I thought you were."

"And perhaps much worse than you're thinking now. But useful," said Sylvia. "We're all useful to one another. As you will be to me. As, I think, you still want to be."

"What are you talking about?"

"Saying it would be so pointless, don't you see? Dorothy, if you don't know what I'm talking about, I couldn't possibly explain it. If you do – I have you already, without saying anything further."

"Some day, Sylvia," said Dorothy sharply, "you'll make a mistake."

"Perhaps. And you, my dear, have already made yours."

A little later, as Dorothy moved to leave, she heard the unmistakable lilting, vibrant voice of Sylvia Noventa saying: "…and, therefore, there is no nobler conception than that of men's absolute equality."

* * *

-

_1_An aureola is the radiance of luminous cloud which, in paintings of sacred personages, surrounds the whole figure. The aureola, when enveloping the whole body, generally appears oval or elliptical in form, but occasionally circular or quatrefoil.

2The Sicilian Defence is a chess opening that begins with the moves e4 c5. This allows both sides to play aggressively in an unbalanced position. Dorothy mentions that it's a "tribute" to Sylvia Noventa, because she is Sicilian by birth and they are currently at a party in Sicily's capital.

_3_The Catalan is a chess opening that derives its name from Catalonia - nowadays a region shared mainly by Spain and in a lesser area by France, the homeland of Dorothy's ancestors.

-

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A/N- Due to the fact that this chapter became absurdly long, I divided it into two parts. In this part, all the characters from last time (Quatre, Dorothy, Sylvia, Peter and Layla) are still present, but their interactions are fleshed out even more. As is now the custom, footnotes have been included again for your enjoyment, although, there aren't many this week. Thank you for reading!


	9. The Canary in the Mine

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

Readers of The Fountainhead should see the parallels I've drawn between Sylvia Noventa and Ellsworth Toohey. Her backstory heavily quotes the novel.

_Canaries are especially sensitive to methane and carbon monoxide, which made them ideal for detecting any dangerous gas build-ups in early coal mines that did not have ventilation systems. As long as the canary in a coal mine kept singing, the miners knew their air supply was safe. A dead canary in a coal mine signaled an immediate evacuation._

_In chapter one, Dorothy compares Sylvia Noventa to "a canary in a coal mine," because she can learn about people by the way they react to Sylvia.

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_Birth and Binding_ VII:

**The Canary in the Mine**

by Terra

* * *

Sylvia Noventa was a stargazer. She was seven years old the first time she beheld the constellation Pegasus in the sky. The winged horse had fascinated her, because it was a land animal who defied nature to soar in the heavens. When she researched the subject, she discovered that Pegasus had been created from the blood shed by the decapitated head of Medusa, who had been slain by Perseus, the son of Zeus. To her dismay, she realized that her beloved myth had been born of murder, and that no miracle had spawned his wings. The message was clear in her mind: _You can't make something of nothing._ _To win, someone must lose._

She was nine years old when her parents died and she was taken in by an orphanage run by the local parish. Until the end of their lives, her parents had spent lavishly, lived ostentatiously and were always poor. Her father, Daunte Noventa, was born the youngest son, who discovered early in life that society held few options for the younger offspring of an aristocratic family. There were two acceptable professions for a gentleman who had no skills or specialty: the church or the military. The only other choice was to wait patiently for his father to die and then divide, piecemeal among his siblings, the Noventa inheritance. When his father seemed poised to live on for many more decades, Daunte decided that he had spent enough of his life living in his family's shadow. When he ran away from them, he vowed that he would build an estate one day that would put to shame the entire Noventa legacy. But Daunte Noventa failed as an entrepreneur. He was unimaginative and overzealous as an investor – rapidly squandering nearly all of his allowance. He lived the rest of his life in want of money, but too proud to appeal to his father.

Mrs. Noventa was an actress, beautiful and shrewd, the kind of woman who would have found the man Daunte became in his later life most distasteful. But she discovered one day that she was pregnant and so she married the young, dashing heir only to realize postnuptially that he had been disowned. In fits of despair as she carried her child to term, she felt that the rest of her dreams lay firmly on the shoulders of her daughter. And so, Natalia Noventa was sorely disappointed when her daughter inherited none of her delicate features or innate grace. Sylvia was born painfully thin and underweight, neither dark nor quite blonde, with the kind of face one could not remember even while looking at it. Natalia never forgave her daughter for her ordinariness. But whereas, her mother saw in her only stunted potential, her father adored her, because she was utterly unremarkable. He was a man who was principally concerned with others' opinion of his own self-worth – enhanced, he felt, because he could bestow affection on so uninspiring of an object. There was martyrdom in loving Sylvia. She was a child who did not obviously deserve love and so, he loved her more for it, congratulating himself all the while on the magnanimity of his spirit.

In the evenings, under the flickering fluorescent lights – when Natalia scrounged up enough credits to pay the electric bill – in the family sitting room, Daunte would begin in a tense, challenging voice, angry and defeated in advance: "Listen, Talia…I want to buy a pony. A pony for our girl. All the girls her age have them; you should've heard Anthony Bennett going on and on about his daughter's damn pony – her second, if you'll believe it. Talia, I want a pony for Sylvia."

"Absolutely not!" Mrs. Noventa would answer sharply. "When you bought her that ludicrously expensive telescope, you near bankrupted us. You know I'm saving for her pageant lessons." She glanced at Sylvia absently. "When I was her age, I had already been in two commercials. No daughter of mine is going to be ordinary."

Daunte would argue, his voice rising in jerks toward an indignant shriek.

"Father, what for?" asked Sylvia, her voice soft, rich and clear, lower than the voices of her parents, yet cutting across them, commanding, strangely persuasive. "There's many things we need more than a pony. What do you care about Mr. Bennett? His daughter is snooty. I don't like her. And she can afford it, because her father owns a company. His father's a show-off. I don't want a pony."

Every word of this was true, and Sylvia did not want a pony. But Mrs. Noventa looked at her strangely, wondering what had made her say that. She saw her daughter's dim green eyes looking at her blankly; the eyes were not sweet, not reproachful, not malicious; just blank. Natalia felt that she should be grateful for her daughter's understanding – and wished to hell the girl had not mentioned that part about owning a company. Sylvia did not get the pony. But she got a polite attention in the house, a respectful solicitude – tender and guilty, from her father, uneasy and suspicious from her mother. Mrs. Noventa would do anything rather than be forced into conversation with Sylvia – feeling, at the same time, foolish and angry at herself for her fear. When Mr. and Mrs. Noventa perished in a tragic yacht explosion, during a party they were hosting on a glamorous boat which routinely failed inspections, Sylvia became an orphan with no known family.

The banks seized all their property to pay for the numerous debts they had accumulated and Sylvia inherited only her parents' personal effects. She was taken in by a local orphanage run by a Catholic church. It was three days later that she turned the hose upon Johnny Chandler, as Johnny was passing by the orphanage lawn, dressed in his best Sunday suit. Johnny had waited for that suit a year and a half, his mother being very poor. Sylvia did not sneak or hide, but committed her act openly, with systematic deliberation: she walked to the tap, turned it on, stood in the middle of the lawn and directed the hose at Johnny, her aim faultless – with Johnny's mother just a few steps behind him down the street, with her own caretaker and the minister in full view on the porch. Johnny Chandler was a bright kid with dimples and golden curls; people always turned to look at Johnny Chandler. Nobody had ever turned to look at Sylvia Noventa.

The shock and amazement of the adults present were such that nobody rushed to stop Sylvia for a long moment. She stood, bracing her thin little body against the violence of the nozzle jerking in her hands, never allowing it to leave its objective until she felt satisfied; then she let it drop, the water hissing through the grass, and made two steps toward the porch, and stopped, waiting, her head high, delivering herself for punishment. The punishment would have come from Johnny if Mrs. Chandler had not seized her boy and held him. Sylvia did not turn to the Chandlers behind him, but said, slowly, distinctly, looking at her guardian and the minister: "Johnny is a dirty bully. He beats up all the kids in school." This was true.

The question of punishment became an ethical problem. It was difficult to punish Sylvia under any circumstances, because of her parents' recent death; besides, it seemed wrong to chastise a girl who had sacrificed herself to avenge injustice, and done it bravely, in the open, ignoring her own comparative physical weakness. Somehow, she looked like a martyr. Sylvia did not say so; she said nothing further; but the minister said it. And everyone, except for the Chandlers, was inclined to agree. For the year of her stay, Sylvia made an indelible impression on the staff. She had a sonorous voice that was astonishing in her small frame. She sang in the choir, where she had no rivals. But her voice, like the rest of her, was not memorable. It was that anonymous quality that made her voice so pleasing to the ear, because no one strained to remember when he had heard it last or wondered who the singer was, but simply relaxed, allowing the mind to disengage, in its presence. Sylvia could be mesmerizing – almost hypnotic – when she chose to inflect in her particular way. It was her only obvious talent.

At school, she was a model pupil. She always knew her lessons, had the neatest notebooks, the cleanest fingernails, loved Sunday school and preferred reading to athletic games, in which she had no chance. She was not too good at mathematics – which she disliked – but excellent at English and history. Her teachers and caretakers considered Sylvia to be a truly selfless child, who didn't care about material things at all. This was true. Sylvia did not care about material things, which could be snatched from her in an instant by her fellow attention-starved orphans, but preferred to horde knowledge. She studied conscientiously and hard. She was not like Johnny Chandler, who never listened in class, seldom opened a book at home, yet knew everything before the teacher had explained it. Learning came to Johnny automatically, as did all things: his able little fists, his healthy body, his startling good looks, his infectious vitality. But Johnny did the shocking and the unexpected; Sylvia did the expected, better than anyone had ever seen it done.

When her grandfather abruptly arrived one somber, rainy morning in search of her, a year after she had been orphaned, she was surprised to see that this tall, imposing man with a crown of white hair was her father's father. As hard as she looked, she could find no resemblance beyond superficial appearance. Giovanni Noventa was a Field Marshall of the Alliance and exuded authority in his every motion. To the best of her knowledge, her father had lived miserably under her mother's thumb and boasted in lieu of action. She was swiftly adopted and brought to her newfound family's estate in Sicily where she found herself surrounded by the wealth her father had always coveted. She thought it was unbearable – the careful way money was invested in the marble floors, the walls of famous artwork and the rich texts of Palazzo dei Normanni. It was a shameless display of wealth memorialized in a material legacy. It was beautiful and that was what made it ugly to Sylvia.

Her grandmother was a kind, old woman who, having lost all her children to adulthood, devoted herself to the care of her granddaughter. It was she who found, from the orphanage's storage, the boxes full of Daunte and Natalia's personal possessions and delivered them to her young charge, feeling that they rightfully belonged to her. Rifling through her mother's diary one night, Sylvia was startled to discover that Natalia Noventa had not always been a woman devoid of all passion for life, as she had observed. Natalia had been made that way by her rushed, unfortunate marriage. Before the ceremony, she had had an illicit affair. Her girly, floridly penned passages left no doubt as to the paternity of her child. It would be years later, when Sylvia was enrolled in an elite boarding school at the age of thirteen that she would track down her real father, Eduardo Sifr. She smiled bitterly when he turned out to be a retired actor and boorish drunk. She laughed when she realized that his surname – her real name – meant "zero" in Arabic. For Eduardo, it had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Sylvia had no desire to meet a similar end.

The Noventas prided themselves on their pure Italian heritage. She was an imposter – an Italian-Arabic mutt – and she maintained her charade, because she unwillingly loved her grandfather. He was strong and important and warm. Sylvia felt an inexplicable desire to impress upon him her lack of faults; she did not realize that her feelings were normal for a child who wanted to be loved. She was determined to love no one by loving everyone, but her grandfather became the exception to her rule. It was apparent to all that Giovanni deeply regretted the loss of his son and saw in his granddaughter a chance at redemption. He trained her in all the manners of a young aristocratic female, sent her to the best schools and indulged her every whim. He found that he liked to tempt her. Giovanni would sit down at the dinner table and ask: "Sylvia, your grandmother tells me that all your friends are going skiing in the Swiss Alps. Wouldn't you like to go, my dear?"

"Grandpa, they're not my friends," replied Sylvia earnestly, authoritatively. "They only invited me to avoid offending you. Besides, what should I need to go skiing in Switzerland for? There's the Dolomites on the mainland that would do just as well, especially since I barely know how to ski in the first place."_1_

He was overcome with pride every time she politely declined an expensive new gift or quietly informed him that she was quite content with how things were. He slowly came to believe that she was his true heir.

The children at the orphanage, jealous of the minister's blatant favoritism towards Sylvia, had called her names, taunting her with chants of "Saliva! Saliva!" in the playground and during the night. Her classmates at her elite boarding school let her have her way, and avoided her when possible, but not openly; they simply could not figure her out. She was helpful and dependable when someone needed assistance with his lessons, but she did not join the usual cliques and seemed completely indifferent to her wealth. She made no effort to acquire special treatment through the usual means and that gave her a special status. She had too much self-assurance and quiet, disturbingly wise contempt for everybody. She was afraid of nothing. She would march right up to the richest snobs, in the middle of the hallway, and state, not yell, in a clear voice that carried for corridors, state without anger – no one had ever seen Sylvia Noventa angry – "James Anderson is an incorrigible twit. Olivia Taylor doesn't even have the brains of one of those ponies she likes so much. Patricia Sanders is a bully, but she'll get hers, because her father's gone bankrupt and she'll have to leave the school."

She had no close personal friends. She was considered impartial and incorruptible. There were two incidents during her school years of which her grandmother was very proud. It happened that the wealthy, popular Olivia Taylor gave a birthday party on the same day as Vicky Winer, a girl on scholarship who fulfilled the prophecy of her name by whining incessantly. Nobody accepted her invitation and of those asked for both occasions, Sylvia was the only one who snubbed Olivia Taylor and went to Vicky Winer's party, a miserable affair from which she expected and received no pleasure. Olivia Taylor's enemies howled and taunted Olivia for months afterward about being passed up in favor of Vicky Winer.

It happened that Drusilla Dunn offered Sylvia a designer purse in exchange for a surreptitious peek at her test paper. Sylvia took the bribe and allowed Drusilla to copy from her test. A week later, Sylvia marched up to the teacher, laid the unopened box containing the purse upon his desk and confessed her crime, without naming the other culprit. All his efforts to extract that name would not budge her; Sylvia remained silent; she explained only that the guilty girl was one of the best students, and she could not sacrifice the girls' record to the demands of her own conscience. She was the only one punished, but the teacher had to drop the matter and let the test marks remain as they were. But it threw suspicion on the grades of all the best pupils of the class, except Sylvia Noventa. Thereafter, she was untouchable.

She attended the best private academy in France at fourteen. Until then, she had felt herself drawn to the career of a minister._2_ She thought a great deal about religion. She talked about God and the spirit; she read extensively on the subject; she brought her audience to tears in one of her greatest oratorical triumphs with the theme of "The meek shall inherit the earth." At this period, she began to acquire friends. She liked to speak of faith and found those who liked to listen. Only, she discovered that the bright, the strong, the able students of her class felt no need of listening, felt no need of her at all. But the suffering and ill-endowed came to her. On the day Sylvia turned fifteen, she astonished the Bible-class teacher by an odd question. The teacher had been elaborating upon the text: "What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?"

"Then in order to be truly wealthy," asked Sylvia, "a man should collect souls?" Soon afterwards, she lost interest in religion. She had discovered socialism. Among the proud young descendents of proud old names, she found an audience and gave them an achievement of which they felt capable. She told them, politely, not in the manner of one seeking favor, but in the manner of one granting it, her reasons for loving the masses over the selfish, egotistical individual whose efforts could only breed narcissism and create the capacity for evil. Her attitude was contagious. People did not question the reasons of her superiority; they took it for granted that such reasons existed. She stood in the courtyard and allowed her voice to soar over the crowd: "To achieve virtue in the absolute sense, a person must be willing to take the foulest crimes upon his soul – for the sake of his brothers. So you think you love mankind? You know nothing of love.

"You give a few thousand credits to the Salvation Army and you think you've done your duty? You poor fools! No gift is worth a damn, unless it's the most precious thing you've got. Give your soul. To a lie? Yes, if others believe it. To deceit? Yes, if others need it. Yes! To whatever it is that seems lowest and vilest in your eyes. Only when you can feel contempt for your own priceless little ego, only then can you achieve the true, broad peace of selflessness, the merging of your spirit with the vast collective of mankind."

Sylvia Noventa became associated with distinction and progressive intellectualism. If this was a victory, she did not seem conscious of it as such; nor did she care. She moved among all the nobility with the assurance of a woman who has a plan, a long-range plan set in every detail, and who can spare nothing, but amusement for the small incidentals on her way. Her smile had a secret, closed quality: the smile of a shopkeeper counting profits – even though, she was not winning anything in particular. During her third year at the academy in Marseille, the Eve War escalated to new heights. Her grandfather became nearly absent in her life at that time, called away as often as he was to duty. She missed his company, because he was the only one with whom she could be forthright and honest. Her grandfather did not usually agree with her views, but his opposition was refreshing when compared to her obedient, groveling peers.

When she heard of his death at the New Edwards Base, she felt an entrenched grief as never before; she was incapable of strong feeling. Yet, he had been the only person in her life who had not immediately dismissed her for her simple looks and unremarkable carriage. If anything, he loved her more for the tremendous effort she willingly expended to match and, ultimately, surpass her more talented peers. When Heero Yuy appeared in her life mere days after Giovanni Noventa's passing, she had wanted to kill him: to pull the trigger and lodge a bullet in his brain, to give him the death he so obviously craved. She had yelled, "You're a coward! You're making me kill you, so you can be freed from your guilt. You … coward!"

He had looked at her then, as if she mattered, as if in the entire world, only she existed. "This is all I can do."

In that moment, Heero Yuy – a complete stranger – made her feel more significant than anyone before him; and it was a feeling she knew she would never experience again. But his unerring selfishness, his incorruptible sense of self and purpose, inspired in her great envy. He was the first truly great man she had ever met and she recognized immediately that he was the man she had been fighting all of her life; fighting to destroy, because a world in which Heero Yuy could be allowed to exist did not have room for her. Shaking with the effort not to press the trigger, she spared him, because this was not the way she wanted to kill him; because her grandfather in death had given her his greatest gift: the debt of a Gundam pilot and entry into the world of politics. But as deeply as she hated him, her enmity was nothing when compared to her feelings towards her truest enemy: Treize Khushrenada.

To her, he was a manipulative bastard who fancied himself a hero worthy of saving humanity from itself. He had been raised a noble – with all the privileges that station bestowed, was gifted with nearly supernatural charisma – and a brilliantly sharp mind, and borne the appearance of a prince. He was a man who inspired other men; he unconsciously belittled the achievements of others through his own greatness; he was the kind of hero people felt a violent desire to tear down, yet he surpassed them all effortlessly. He represented everything Sylvia Noventa had ever unwillingly coveted and so, she strove in her every despicable act to undo his life's work. That he chose to die in a blaze of glory was nearly unbearable to Sylvia, because one could not fight a dead man. Her power was over the living, over those who were ignorant of what it meant to live.

To that end, her prowess at oration translated easily into the written arts. She wrote prolifically and saw her syndicated columns published, reproduced and quoted everywhere. She was a rising star in the political world and it was no accident that she chose to associate herself at every opportunity with Relena Darlian. She was not beautiful and did not have the Vice Foreign Minister's ageless appearance, her noble countenance or her ability to inspire any audience to greater emotional heights; her power lay wholly in her ordinariness, stemming from her common roots and swayed in those who listened a deep sense of guilt for pursuing worldly desires, for living selfishly and for loving themselves. Those feelings delivered them into her hands wherein she found them to be unforgivably malleable. But she took care to avoid attending functions where Relena Darlian would be present. When such encounters were unavoidable, she strove to be dull, blank and forgettable, a task made infinitely easier by her totally undifferentiated appearance.

Relena Darlian had an uncanny intuition about people and Sylvia could ill afford her disfavor. So, she bided her time until she had perfected her art, waiting until after the Mariemaia Incident to claim her seat in the House of Lords, choosing to become a career politician. She did not cease to write and added appearances on popular talk shows to her lengthy résumé. That year, Sylvia Noventa became a fashion. Intellectual hostesses fought over her. Some people disliked her and laughed at her, but there was little satisfaction in that, because she was always the first to make the most outrageous remarks about herself. Once, at a party, a smug businessman listened to Sylvia's earnest social theories for a while and said complacently: "Well, I wouldn't know much about all that intellectual stuff. I play the stock market."

"I," replied Sylvia, smartly, "play the stock market of the spirit. And I sell short." The years passed, with each busy day of her life like a small drop of water in a bottomless lake, and her sphere of influence grew. Of all the many titles bestowed upon her, she preferred one: Sylvia Noventa, the Humanitarian. She was now twenty-five years old – and poised to reign, with only one more worldwide catastrophe. For that, she would need Dorothy Catalonia...who was already hers, regardless of the Catalonia heiress's unwillingness.

-

He crushed the icy sand in his fist, compacting the chilly crystals into an orb, feeling the cold resonating in his palm, the pleasant pain shooting up his arm to his elbow. The swirling blades of the helicopter ruptured the neatly piled heaps of snow on the helipad, swirling the flakes so that it rained down on them. Duo Maxwell stood with his back to the clamoring sounds of people disembarking from the aircraft, looking at the breathtaking mountain backdrop resting idyllically beneath an idly setting sun. He loved snow. In his childhood, he had only seen it a handful of times on L2, the colony officials ruling it a waste to create a season that was frosty and universally considered unpleasant; most importantly, it was not economical.

When Duo became the chairman of the Sweeper Group, he made giving winter back to the residents a condition of building his headquarters on L2. But snow in the colonies could never compare to the majesty of the snow-laden Swiss Alps, where the chalet village of Davos was nestled; the small village traditionally hosted the annual Earth Sphere Economic Forum, where a dearth of important officials and business leaders congregated yearly to lay plans for world-molding. It was the most exclusive group of insiders in the solar system; Duo considered himself its lone outsider. With his rough upbringing, easygoing demeanor and eccentric hairstyle – a waist length chestnut-colored braid, he was considered the exception to many rules. It was an unspoken law that the press corps and other non-governmental attendees arrived in a coach train or a conference bus. The moderately powerful rode a first class train to the mountain's crest. Duo belonged to the extremely powerful and came with his good friend – and business partner – Quatre Winner in a helicopter that loomed over the earthbound vehicles and surpassed them to the summit.

Escorted by bodyguards, they bypassed the security checkpoints: the thousands of Swiss police and soldiers, tanks and armored personnel carriers, missile launchers and antiaircraft weaponry. They strode past the live current barbed wired fences and no one stopped them as they cut in front of the milling crowd waiting impatiently by the metal detectors and x-ray machines, designed to service the thousands of delegates expected. Glancing at the Armani-clad man beside him, Duo said wryly: "If someone manages to take out Davos this week, they'll have killed half of the world's ruling class."

Quatre smiled faintly. "If we weren't here, I'd be sorely tempted to do the job myself."

"Why so cynical? Changes are afoot."

"You mean Relena?"

"Sure," he said carelessly. "Who knows? We might lose our day jobs tomorrow."

"Would you want to?"

"No," answered Duo slowly, honestly. "I'd want to go out on my own terms."

"We may not have to. Duo, we weren't wrong."

He laughed. "Of course. There's just the small matter of convincing the rest of the world. In all honesty, I'm not too keen on going down in history as the God of Death."

"We can't control how we'll be remembered, but we'll always know how we lived. Today's heroes may become tomorrow's enemies. As easily as yesterday's villains are today's martyrs."

"And what are we?"

"Hopefully, not martyrs," said Quatre dryly.

Entering the main conference hall behind his friend, Duo surveyed the room. It was almost entirely occupied. Delegates stood strewn along the aisles in idle conversation while the press lined the balcony, busily interviewing bystanders and positioning their cameras at favorable angles, carelessly jostling against people in the way. As the two of them descended the stairs towards their designated seats, Duo nodded in acknowledgement at several of his colleagues, who had caught his eye – mentally red-flagging the most important faces. He paused when he saw the impatient figure of Fatima Winner standing in wait for her brother's arrival. In their few encounters, Fatima had left him with the impression that while she despised all men, she reserved most of her vitriol for him and her brother. Duo clapped a heavy hand on his friend's shoulder, muttered a hasty apology before swiftly walking away in the opposite direction.

He muffled a chuckle at Quatre's stormy expression. From behind him, above the din of indistinguishable voices, a familiar voice spoke with suppressed humor: "Fatima's not that frightening."

He turned and looked at the immaculately dressed woman standing ramrod straight, as if in defiance of the concept of exhaustion. "You're wrong there, princess. Let's just say that you're not equipped to enjoy her particular brand of charm."

Relena laughed, a tinkling sound that reminded him of a bubbling brook. "Is that right? And how does one become properly equipped?"

"Through procedures best not mentioned in polite company. Well, it's true that Fatima doesn't hate everyone…" he amended, "she only hates men, and especially men like me and Quatre."

"Why, Mr. Maxwell, you're outrageous!" she said, covering her mouth daintily with her hand in mock affront. "How should I punish you for offending a lady's sensibilities?"

Duo smiled mischievously. "But I don't see any ladies here…do you?"

She laughed. "Thank you. You always know just the right things to say. I really needed a good laugh before my press conference."

Tilting his head toward the harried reporters gathered on the balcony above, he said, "The vultures are already circling overhead."

"Yes, well…I suppose I can't stall forever." Relena touched his arm reassuringly in parting and made her way towards the balcony. He watched silently on the ground floor as she exchanged a few words with her press agent, absently checking her appearance in her handheld mirror. Stalwartly, she stepped behind the podium and, gazing intrepidly into the cameras, announced firmly: "I'm in. And I'm in to win."

Turning away, Duo glanced absently at the wall-mounted vidscreen where a larger-than-life pixilated Relena Darlian declared, "But I'm not just starting a campaign. I'm beginning a conversation with you, with the Earth Sphere—"_3_

Without warning, the broadcast was disrupted and her face disappeared. In her place, a stunned anchorwoman announced: "We interrupt Foreign Minister Relena Darlian's announcement of her presidential candidacy with breaking news! In an exclusive press release, we have learned the identities of the Gundam pilots, those five elusive men who left total destruction in their wake...and started a revolution before vanishing without a trace. Our exclusive source, _Society_ columnist Dorothy Catalonia, has chosen ESN News to reveal their names. Lady Catalonia, the Duchess Dermail, has firsthand knowledge of their identities and is disclosing to the public for the first time…just who these dangerous terrorists were and where they're hiding today.

"Don't change that channel! This is an exclusive story from the network you can trust. We report. You decide. I'm Anneliese Werden, reporting for ESN News, live from Berlin."_4_

As Duo's grim gaze collided with Quatre's steady glance across the conference hall, he whispered softly, with finality, "It's beginning." The room fell eerily silent. As the images of destruction during the Eve War flashed across the screen, the anchorwoman began to recount meticulously the history of mankind's most tumultuous year, AC 195: Operation Meteor, Gundam's descent to Earth; the attack at the New Edwards Base; Operation Daybreak, OZ's coup d'état and the Alliance's downfall; Treize Khushrenada's resignation from the Romefeller Foundation, following the advent of mobile dolls; Operation Nova, Romefeller's creation of a World Nation; the coronation of the Queen of the World; the ascension of the White Fang; Treize Khushrenada's reinstatement as sovereign of the World Nation; His Majesty's tragic death in battle; the falling pieces of the battleship Libra onto the Earth.

"And now, we are ready to release to the public the confirmed identities of the Gundam pilots. In what is perhaps the most shocking twist of fate, Winner heir and renowned pacifist Quatre Raberba Winner has been exposed by Lady Catalonia as a Gundam pilot, the pilot of the Gundam designated zero-four." Glossy photographs of the blond Arabian were paraded across the screen: Quatre at a press conference, Quatre shaking hands with the president, Quatre at the construction site of Winner Tower. His picture was juxtaposed next to a surveillance shot of Sandrock. "This is no hoax, ladies and gentleman. We can definitively confirm the validity of this information. Quatre Raberba Winner, the multibillionaire, is a Gundam pilot!

"And it only gets more twisted. They have been hiding in plain sight! He is Winner's closest friend and business partner. He is the chairman of the Sweeper Group." He stared at his own likeness on the vidscreen. Then, he saw the Deathscythe, broken and shattered, drifting in Outer Space, the victim of OZ's machinations. "His name is Duo Maxwell and he is a Gundam pilot, the pilot of the Gundam designated zero-two…"

The stunned silence continued for another excruciating moment. Then the conference hall erupted.

* * *

-

_1_Italy's north-east is dominated by the Dolomites (_Dolomiti_), an extensive range of impressively jagged peaks. Popular with summer walkers and climbers, in the skiing season the Dolomites rejoice in sunny weather and plenty of powdery snow, with slopes and trails for all abilities.

_2_In the year AC 6, the Catholic Church officially sanctioned the initiation of women priests. While they had unofficially led numerous churches throughout the years, the Pope's declaration that the Bible recognized female ministers demolished one of the last roadblocks to gender equality in the church.

_3_Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton's words when she declared her candidacy.

_4_Real world news network Fox News' trademark motto.

-

* * *

A/N- In Norse mythology, there are several precursors to Ragnarök, the end of the world and the beginning of the next. The first event that must take place is the birth of Jörmungandr, the sea serpent who grew so large that he was able to encircle the Earth and grasp his own tail. In _Valhalla_, it's Dorothy Catalonia who most resembles this creature, because she has come full circle in this arc – from a cynical, disgusted idealist to someone who has begun to accept that she may have been wrong, that there may still be hope for humanity, because there are still men like Quatre and the Gundam pilots.

The second birth is of Hel, ruler of Helheim (hell), who was cast down to her realm in the underworld and charged with watching over those who do not die gloriously in battle but of sickness or of old age. Here, it's Quatre Raberba Winner who fits this role as caretaker, not as a leader of bloodthirsty warriors, but as a protector of ordinary people. Quatre is no general of an army; instead, he's a vigilante who cannot tolerate the abuse of power. Since the war ended, he has been in this role, as a watchdog, but now everything he's done is being called into question and he will have to answer to those he risked all to save.

The third birth is of Fenrir, the wolf, who was bound by the gods, but is ultimately destined to grow too large for his bonds and will devour Odin, the chief god, during the course of Ragnarök. Fenrir represents Sylvia Noventa, who is poised to conquer the world stage. Compared to Dorothy and Quatre, she is easily the one who has changed the world the least, the one most bound by the restraints of being average. In _Valhalla_, she'll slip those binds and all hell will break loose, because of her ambition.

The spotlight was on Dorothy in this arc, but that will soon change in _Choosers of the Slain_, when Quatre takes the helm. Thank you for staying committed to this story. **And for those of you who don't regularly review, I hope you'll take this opportunity to leave me some kind of feedback about this arc as a whole, if it's too troublesome to comment on each individual chapter.** Thank you all for reading!


	10. Choosers of the Slain: All Loss

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

A few lines in the conversation between Mariemaia and Wufei are adapted from conversations between Dominique and her two suitors Peter and Wynand in The Fountainhead.

_The second arc of Valhalla consists of seven chapters and is entitled: Choosers of the Slain._

_All Loss occurs in certain competitions with time limits, when one or both teams squander time and go past the maximum allotted time so that both sides lose._

* * *

_Choosers of the Slain_ I:

**All Loss**

by Terra

* * *

He drifted aimlessly in the water staying submerged with careless, willful effort; staring with eyes he was not conscious of opening through the haze at the drizzling sky. He could trace the path of every raindrop as it melted into the pool over his unresisting form. A triangular patch of sky overlooking the atrium through the skylight exposed the Olympic-sized pool below to the unfiltered elements. It was too dangerous to be outside where the press mobbed his gates and the bereaved tried to claw their way in. Even in the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg, the smallest of European nations, he couldn't escape his victims. Only in this indoor atrium could he be safely outside.

He was waiting.

He liked to swim; the sensation of weightlessness was heavier than in the vacuum of space where no anchor of gravity held him; where he would always need an artificial skin. It amused him to struggle against the water, because he needed only the unadulterated strength of his muscles; he felt a primal satisfaction in this unaided victory. Quatre waited until the burning in his lungs became unbearable before breaking the surface of the water in a powerful thrust that, for one instant, scattered the falling raindrops and parted the water in crests that shattered against the ceramic edges of the pool.

He enjoyed the fight to stay submerged until the scorching heat in his chest consumed him. He liked discovering his limits, and then exceeding them. He was not aware that this desire was rooted in longing for the tension of the battlefield, of constantly fighting on the edge of a serrated blade; of conquering death at its most inevitable. Sometimes, when he could not avoid thinking about the war, Quatre resolved to devote more time, more exertion to his business as an exercise to confirm that he had survived. Surmounting the fierce competition was proof that he still existed; that he was not diminished by having lived.

Feeling the pelting rain soak his face, angled defiantly skyward, he thought about his father. The stormy night he ran away, he left only one short missive: 'War brings sorrow…but we must fight to keep our loved ones from sorrow.'_1_ Smiling bitterly, he mused over what his father would think of him now – what his father would've thought about his hasty escape from Davos that morning under fire by reporters and delegates and even a few soldiers. It was a distinct possibility, one he could not ignore, that he, and Duo, might not have survived had Davos not been the world's most secure location that week.

In the chaos and the absence of countermanding orders, most of the soldiers had closed ranks around them, reverting to crowd control, their most basic training, and secured their escape route. Zayeed Winner had not surrendered to or run from OZ, had never succumbed to anyone, choosing death – and absolute pacifism – over subjugation. But Quatre was not his father and he could not simply choose to self-destruct, not during the war and certainly not now. He knew that every news media outlet was running the story of his life, dissecting his every choice and transaction. His sisters, and the world, were all watching.

He wasn't surprised when he heard the glass screen door slide open in a forcefully steady motion that told Quatre that she did not want him to think her so weak as to be uncertain. Her turned to see that Layla's pale, drenched, shivering face did not look capable of forgiveness; she walked towards him with unfamiliar footsteps, muffled by the wet cement. Quatre had known she would come, had been waiting for her and seeing her now, he felt there was something too broken about her expression, her eyes stung with too much pain. Her voice was not a scream, but an agonized whisper quivering in anticipation: "Was it you?"

He replied evenly, "Was what me?"

"It was you…wasn't it? At the 07U1 resource satellite," she gasped out, expelling a rush of suddenly necessary air._2_

"Yes," said Quatre simply, brutally, to spare her the pain of enduring hesitation and the possibility of his innocence.

The tears that streaked down her face dissolved into the raindrops that fell faster now. Layla cried, "Why? H-how could you?"

He remained silent for a moment, staring at her shaking form, at her violent attempts to remain upright, her fists clenched fiercely, as the world crumbled around her. He asked only: "Who?"

"My brother. My older brother, Hadi. He was a war reporter—" her voice broke. She took a shuddering breath, and tried again, her voice a crescendo of pain: "He was only doing his job! He was stationed with OZ. Unit 171. I can never forget – I can never forget, because that's where he died!"

"I'm sorry, Layla," he said quietly.

"Why?" She seemed oblivious to her own movement as she fell unhesitatingly into the pool. She staggered in the water until she stood in front of him, searching his face beseechingly. "Why? Just tell me why, Quatre!"

"I thought space had gone crazy. The colonies were arming themselves, were voluntarily becoming a part of the vicious cycle of war…and they didn't know it. They didn't care. I wanted to save them from OZ, from Romefeller – from repeating Earth's mistakes."

"That's not good enough!" Clutching his forearms, her fingers splayed, she trembled from sustaining the effort to remain still. "Why did you have to be the one to kill my brother? What gave you," the harsh whisper was wrenched out of her throat, "…the right? Who are you to decide life or death?"

Quatre looked straight at the woman he had met unexpectedly, felt safe with immediately, made love to leisurely and was compelled to be near frequently; who had been an enduring, inconstant presence in his life. He knew – had always known – that he wanted her for her warmth, her homeliness, her normalcy. He had wanted to drown in it and emerge whole, the edges of his soul, his dark wants blunted. She had never asked for anything from him. But she was looking at him now with a demand in her eyes. She had never looked as alive to him as she was then, balanced in that moment before shattering realizations.

He cradled her grief-wracked body in his arms, crushing her into his chest so that she could stop feigning physical fortitude. "I did what I thought was right at a time when no one else would, when no one would tell me who the enemy was. For a while, I think I lost my sanity."

Layla raised her head slowly, cautiously meeting his eyes, as if afraid of what she would see. "You went insane? Are you saying that you're not guilty…that you're not responsible—?"

"No," he interrupted. "I won't make any excuses for what I did. Layla…they killed my father…and for a long time, I couldn't think past my grief. I was consumed by it and I wanted to destroy everything that OZ had ever touched, had ever made an instrument of his death. I killed – I killed so many people and I didn't stop – couldn't stop – for so long. It took two friends almost dying to bring me back. For a while, I really thought I had killed Tro—, one of them," he finished. Quatre swept aside the wet strands of hair clinging to her face, the tips of his fingers brushing her tear-stained cheek. "The only thing I can tell you – the only thing I can say is that I fought, because I thought it was the right thing to do."

She shook her head fiercely, neither able to deny the veracity of his words nor accept their justice. Taking a quivering breath, she murmured fervently: "Do you know why I had to run away from my family?"

"Why?" he asked gently.

"It wasn't just because I wanted to be a novelist like I told you; it was because I wanted to be a journalist…like Hadi. My parents had already lost one son. They didn't want to lose me, too. But that didn't stop me. I wanted to preserve his memory. I wanted to write a book about his life. But I couldn't be like him. I was so ashamed…that I ran all the way to L4 to find out that I wasn't good enough to be a real reporter. So I reviewed books…anything to get published, to be close – to feel close to him. I've never told anyone this, not even you, because I didn't want to be a burden."

At this admission, her eyes wide with remembrance, Layla wrenched herself out of his arms. "But this entire time…all this time, I've been here with you! With – with Hadi's killer. And I want to think that you're some kind of a monster, something evil, but I can't, because I know that you're good and kind…and I lo-loved you!"

"Layla."

"No! Don't say my name like that." She thrashed through the water until she reached the steps leading out of the pool. Stumbling out, her voice hoarse and leaden with despair, she told him: "I can't look at you right now. I only came, because I needed to know. And now I do. I just can't. Not anymore."

Silent and still, Quatre watched her run into the house, slamming the glass door shut behind her, heard her disoriented footfalls strike heavily against each stair leading to his bedroom. He knew she was frantically shoveling all her belongings in a suitcase. He knew she was leaving him. Standing motionless in spite of the storm that raged unabated around him, he was not surprised to feel a tide of relief wash over him – it was jagged; her presence would have cut him deeper than her absence. He knew that even suffocating in his betrayal, Layla knew this, too. This woman, who had always anchored him to the present and made no demands for a future, who was never more than a transient shadow in his life, was even then, still trying to look after him.

Cupping a handful of rainwater and her tears to his mouth, he drank her salty grief and allowed himself for the first time to love her.

-

When the first Preventer agent had reached the ESN studio in Berlin, Germany, he had found behind the rotating front entrance, on the chaise lounge in the lobby, an immaculately dressed Dorothy Catalonia sitting in wait, watching the news on the vidscreen in the nearby wall.

"You need to come with me down to the station," the agent said.

"You'd better arrest me," replied Dorothy. "I'll talk at the trial."

She had not said another word in answer to all the official questions that followed, not on the way to the Preventers base and not when she arrived in Brussels. Lady Une watched as she was processed, still refusing to answer even routine questions, then escorted into an interrogation room. At this display of aloof insolence, Lady Une's calm, impenetrable bearing warred with the desire to loose her rage on Dorothy Catalonia, who sat in the same unperturbed manner in which she waited to be arrested. But Une's equanimity withstood even the news from her aide that the Foreign Minister was on the line and urgently requesting to speak to her.

She had no doubt that Dorothy Catalonia was the purpose of the vidcall. Over the years, Une rarely saw Relena Darlian outside of political functions and security briefings. They had never been friends, and seldom saw each other socially, although Relena had always been unfailingly polite and pointedly friendly as if Une were a hardship for her to overcome or a necessary duty to bear. Une was thankful that there were few occasions which necessitated both their appearances. Her position as the head of the Preventers Intelligence Agency made her answerable only to the Defense Ministry and the President, who had learned brutally the consequences of insufficient funding during the Mariemaia Incident. The budget was never again a concern after that.

Initially, she had fought against the expansion of the Preventers, reeling from a sense of déjà vu at how closely her organization – the only instrument she had with which to propagate Treize's dream – was coming to resemble the Alliance in its early days. It was ironic, she had often reflected, that once she had needed more manpower and now had too much. It was no secret that she had no intention to bow to political necessity, even at the risk of being deposed by politicians she didn't care to humor; she was confident that there was no one who could do her job better; after a lifetime of military service and discipline, she knew how to garner the trust of her soldiers, mere "agents" in the civilian vernacular, but whom she never thought of in that way. She expected them to act accordingly.

Une swept into her office and activated the link that would patch vidcalls through to her desk terminal. She was not surprised when Relena's first words were to request a meeting with her prisoner, which she promptly denied. With a perfunctory glance at Relena's image on the vidscreen, watching her part her lips in protest, she reiterated in a precise bureaucratic manner: "I understand that she's your friend, Minister, but Dorothy Catalonia is an interstellar security risk. No one will be allowed near her until I can ascertain her level of involvement in our security breach and the names of her accomplices."

"I don't know how much emergency power you have under the Preventer Charter to deal with this kind of situation, but Dorothy has diplomatic immunity. Before the Economic Forum, she officially filed for her family seat in Parliament. Legally, I don't think you can't touch her. You must give me a chance to speak with her," insisted Relena, retreating behind the same wall of bureaucratic curtness at the other woman's polite, restrained tone. "I may be the only one she'll tell the truth to."_3_

"It's still impossible. We're relocating her to headquarters in The Hague. Since the news aired six hours ago, there have been hundreds of riots here in Brussels. I've already mobilized every Preventer agent on active duty. We can't spare anyone to secure a private meeting for you two," said Une, a hint of steel in her normally dulcet voice. "You've just announced your candidacy for President. Being seen with Dorothy Catalonia won't help you to distance yourself from the Gundam pilots."_4_

"I have no intention of distancing myself from anyone. Not until I understand why," declared Relena, her face composed in her political mask, a painstaking blankness which showed only the appropriate amount of interest. Une could recall seeing this expression from hundreds of televised press conferences. That she was speaking to Relena now on a vidscreen only enhanced the effect. She responded: "She's been an unpredictable security risk for years. I'm only sorry that I didn't find an excuse to lock her up sooner," Une grimaced, "I should never have allowed Mariemaia to become friends with that woman."

"You believe that Dorothy's the hacker, don't you? But it doesn't fit. Quatre has suspected all along that something's amiss about all this and I agree. I need to hear her explanation personally."

"Our first priority is containment." Une smiled bitterly, briefly abandoning her earlier aloofness. "Your tête-à-tête will have to wait until after I've interrogated her to within an inch of her life."

"You don't know her as well as I do. A few days ago, she wasn't even aware that someone had hacked into the Preventer mainframe."

"Relena, no matter what her motivations, that woman committed high treason. She does not deserve your trust or forgiveness."

"My forgiving Dorothy isn't up to you. The price may be steep," said Relena slowly, carefully, "but I believe that people can atone. No one is beyond redemption."

Une gripped the edges of the video console to prevent herself from flinching, shame and memory roaring in her ears at this oblique reference to the assassination of Richard Darlian._5_ She murmured, "Of course. Forgiven, but never forgotten."

"Lady Une…please. It's in the past. We're both of us different people now. And the world, too, is a different place," said Relena, breathing in deeply, exhausted. "We're at the brink of another war – only it will be more sinister than the last, because the public still thinks of the Gundams with a sense of horror. They're no better than terrorists in their eyes. Just disposable heroes."

"And easy targets."

"But frankly? Interstellar law may actually be on the side of the people screaming for blood. If you or the Preventers try to defend them, then the fury of the mob will turn on you."

Une acknowledged this warning with a grave nod. "I'm aware. I'm already being pressured to release Dorothy Catalonia, although naturally, I haven't publicized her arrest."

"Then let me have a vidlink into her cell. If there's the smallest chance that she'll answer my questions then it's worth whatever minimal security risk there is. I can't spin this or control the fallout if I don't have all the facts."

Une watched the Foreign Minister carefully for a moment, gauging the validity of her justification. With a grim countenance, she assented: "You'll have ten minutes. No more."

"Thank you. That's all I'll need."

The chief commanding officer of the Preventers stared coldly at Dorothy Catalonia as she explained the conditions of the vidcall. Une, vaguely aware that she had been manipulated through her residual guilt, their complicated past into granting this favor, exited the cell with a feeling of disquiet as Relena's image flickered onto the vidscreen, her eyes probing Dorothy's face intently. Her voice came out anguished, betrayed: "Dorothy, what have you done?"

-

In the living rooms, in the diners, in the bars and on the streets, people talked about the Gundam pilots, boys barely on the cusp of adulthood who had been handed weapons of mass destruction – weapons which exploited the tabula rasa morality of children trained for war. For some, it gave them a twisted, compassionate slant. It was said:

"Heero Yuy? You know, that architectural freak of Winner's. He blasted open the Presidential Residence during that coup a year after the war."

"I hear they were all test tube babies! How horrible...genetically engineered to be soldiers…!"

"It's no wonder. Supposedly, that ZERO system they're talking about makes you a mindless, bloodthirsty killer."

Others said:

"Always knew there wasn't something right about that Winner heir. Can't trust test tubers. It isn't natural. They aren't natural."

"That's right. They're nothing, but despicable terrorists. But they'll answer to God, mark my words!"

"Vile, evil murderers! The lethal injection's too good for them. Toss them out of an airlock. That's justice."

Sally Po, who was his only friend in the Preventers, exchanged harsh words with his attackers. She was angrier than he had ever seen her; her face lost all the grace of her usual cheerful poise. "Cowards!" she snapped at them. "Most of you have never even seen war."

That evening, hours after the broadcast, Wufei entered his office and said, without greeting: "Tell me you weren't a part of this."

"No." Mariemaia Khushrenada rose stiffly from the steno chair in front of his desk, and answered sharply, "I had nothing to do with the broadcast."

"What do you know?"

"That Dorothy wasn't responsible for hacking into the mainframe. That she would never have done this given the choice," she said stolidly. "There isn't anything in the world more unbearable to her than this."

Wufei silently assessed the young woman who stood stiffly before him, her chin tilted upwards so that she could meet his eyes, hands clenched unconsciously into fists against the fabric of her skirt, a gesture of anxiety she wasn't aware of showing him. "That woman has never given anyone a reason to trust her. Not during the war, not after. Only your word for it is not enough to convince me that her motives are honorable."

"I know that it's difficult for you to believe in me – or to ever forgive me for hijacking my father's dream for my own selfish whims. I won't make excuses for myself," said Mariemaia, squaring her shoulders as if to ward off a blow. "In a way, I'm just as contemptible as any of the noblemen you hate so much, who scurry away at the first hint of conflict and only return after all the good men have sacrificed themselves for peace to bribe whoever is left. Like them, I'm a scavenger; when I meet someone, my first instinct is to find advantage, to exploit weakness. To have power over him. It's the only way to be safe. It's how I know that I exist, that I mean something. But Dorothy isn't like me or any of the other nobility. You won't ever meet anyone more pure or with more integrity."

"Even if what you say is true, her integrity is responsible for marking five men for death and reigniting the same tensions between Earth and the Colonies that led to the Eve Wars in the first place. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people are dying or dead right now," he said flatly, unmoved.

"I can't deny that, but you need to understand who she is before you interrogate her. You need to know that she's so uncompromisingly honest that she can't conceive of any way to live that even slightly resembles a lie. It hurts her so much that in this world nothing can ever stay pristine, that everything is tarnished by hypocrisy. Where no one acts except as an echo of someone with the courage to act first."

"Why are you really here? You can't be asking me to pity her."

"No, never. It's because I know you. There's no one who could understand her better than you. Don't you remember how we met?" asked Mariemaia, leaning imperceptivity towards him as if proximity would recall the past. "You couldn't find in the people you'd saved anyone worth saving. It may have been nine years ago, but I can still remember your disgust with a world that discards its soldiers once they're no longer useful. You couldn't accept Relena Darlian's false peace."

"But I was proven wrong that night," he shook his head, "when the people of Brussels stood against you. They were people worth fighting for."

"Yes," she smiled tautly, mirthlessly, "I guess you didn't know that it was Dorothy who shamed the crowds into action and transported them to the Presidential Residence."_6_

"No," he admitted, surprised. "I didn't know that."

"Even then, it took extraordinary provocation. It took a coup and Relena Darlian renouncing her pacifism and using her clout as the former Queen of the World to make people act instead of react. Wufei…that taint, that fissure – that weakness is still there. And it's been growing stronger as the immediacy of the war has faded from people's minds."

"That may be true. But I've made my peace with it. It's the only way people can look at themselves in the mirror without constantly remembering their own cowardice." Wufei narrowed his eyes. "It's the only way we can move on."

"But that's just it. Move on to what? People want only mirrors around them. To reflect them while they're reflecting, too. Until everyone becomes just a fleeting image terrified of being shattered by those who'll stand up and do something!" Her impassioned voice built, rose in volume until it reverberated through his office. "It's why you joined the Barton Foundation, why you helped me to conquer the Earth Sphere. And it's why Dorothy used the White Fang to try and start a war so bloody that no one would ever think of fighting again. Like my father, she was willing to sacrifice herself for that dream."

"She's nothing like Treize," denied Wufei disdainfully, the intensity of his voice betraying his anger for the first time since he saw her waiting in his office. She started at the violence of his tone, and took a hesitant step forward. Even as he said this, he was startled by the sudden resemblance he saw to the man he had once cried for in the set of Mariemaia's shoulders, her cutting blue gaze – how had he ever thought her eyes dull like stained glass? – and the unconscious charisma that radiated from her every step closer, battering against his pride and shrinking the room until he felt claustrophobic.

To think that once, he had thought her the embodiment of Treize's weaknesses: his vanity and his reckless disregard for human life in the face of an all-consuming dream. Treize hadn't allowed himself to think in terms of single lives; he dreamt of revolution and of civilization – such was the scope of a vision born from a messiah complex so compelling that he inspired all men, good or evil, to serve his cause. In the child Mariemaia, the personification of that arrogance had been farcical, as if she were playing a caricature of her father, like a girl trying on a man's clothes and drowning in them. But this woman who stood in implacable appeal before him suddenly resembled Treize so keenly his chest burned as he unconsciously held his breath.

She was saying: "You may not agree with the extremeness of Dorothy's actions, but since the war, all she's done is act as the world demands that she should act, because she isn't capable of doing anything halfway. She's so cognizant of people who believe that they're virtuous, selfless, independent, but stink of fear and hate of anyone with ability or vision. This place where veterans – heroes like you – are forced to beg for a chance to be allowed to live. To let you function as you are, to not be made to tremble, because they hold so much power to hurt you. She can't accept it so she's resisting in the only way she can."

As he spoke, his voice slowly lost its anger and slipped to a dead flatness on the last words. "How can this way lead to anything, but pain and destruction?"

"I don't know. That's why I don't think she did this voluntarily. Dorothy may be the most consistent liar of all of us, but even she wouldn't do this. She has always suffered alone – it's the only gesture of protest open to her. She's not strong like you, Wufei; she can't live torn between the world that exists and one where you have a fighting chance and can fight on your own terms. She allowed herself to be arrested, because she's choosing to stop struggling. She can't bear seeing people like the Gundam pilots being destroyed, so she's destroying herself first." Mariemaia added uncertainly, obduracy forcing out her reluctant confession: "I think – I think she's hoping you'll kill her."

"No," he promised grimly. "I won't make her a martyr."

-

Later, after Wufei had finished keying in the security code to the interrogation room, he strode in and looked at Dorothy Catalonia silently, allowing no hint of personal reaction in his face. She sat looking up at him, faintly astonished by his scrutiny, as if she deserved no special attention. He could not force on him, though he was seeking it fiercely, any other impression of her face than the incongruous one of cool disinterest.

"You look like a stylized version of yourself," he said finally.

"Oh?" Her blond brow arched. "How is that, Mr. Chang?"

"Your indifference is so exaggerated, it's comical."

"I didn't expect you to see that," said Dorothy. "We've only met a handful of times."

"I was told today that there was no one who could understand you better." He left 'than me' unspoken.

"And what do you understand?"

"You aren't curious who told me," he observed.

"No," she shrugged carelessly. "It could only be Mariemaia, anyway."

"She came in and made excuses for you."

"None of which you believe."

Wufei ignored her inference. "She called herself contemptible compared to you."

"Puppy love," she replied lightly.

"You forget that I knew Mariemaia before you."

"Then you know that her fatal weakness is her family. She wants badly to be loved."

He ignored this also. "She told me that nothing could be more unbearable to you than this betrayal." Wufei had felt that there was something manufactured about her countenance and he became certain of it now, by something in her face, a tightening that contradicted, for a second, the unaffected indifference of her self-control. "It seems that you are not entirely without honor."

"How is that?" she asked politely.

"Your chief motive was to time the broadcast to coincide with Relena Darlian's announcement of her candidacy." He saw the glance she could not control and added: "No, don't enjoy the thought that I've fallen into the error of thinking that this was politically motivated. You chose the Economic Forum, because it would give us time and forewarning to prepare our escape."

"I didn't expect you to understand that," she said primly.

"Even then, Maxwell and Winner barely made it out alive."

"If they couldn't be protected in Davos during the Economic Forum, then there's no place in the solar system they could've been any safer."

He felt a bitter little stab of triumph. "It was such an obvious way to sabotage Darlian's presidential campaign that we were sure the people you work for wouldn't be able to resist."

"What makes you so certain I'm following orders?"

"If you were behind this, you would never have so crudely delivered the news yourself," said Wufei scornfully. "It's a task for pawns."

"If you think you know this much, then why bother with this farce of an interrogation?"

"Because you're not the kind of woman who allows herself to be used without your own reasons."

"And you think I'll share them with you?" asked Dorothy, the corners of her mouth lifted sardonically, cocking her head to look at him with an amused glance – an unmistakable echo of the same coy mannerism he had seen her assume at the Presidential Gala. She still thought she was giving a performance; that he did not see through her.

In Wufei's youth, he would smile with a hint of mockery, which was always present, but came into sharper focus for a moment after victory, then receded again under the inevitable onslaught of self-loathing when he recalled the price of triumph and the bitterness of remembering Meilan's sacrifice._7_ It had the power to transform every victory into a cruel, cosmic joke; because there was no justice in the world if it had to be delivered by men like him, who could not even save one girl, who had watched helplessly as his people perished and Treize, who could only let people die for him._8_

The focus of mockery was sharper now. "No. I think you'll let us use you as bait."

* * *

-

_1_Before Quatre ran away from his home, his family and his name to fight with the Maganac Corps in Operation Meteor, he left his father a note, in which he wrote: "War brings sorrow…but we must fight to keep our loved ones from sorrow."

_2_In episode 24, after the death of his father, Quatre destroys an OZ natural resource satellite at point 07U1 with the Wing Zero, without issuing any warning beforehand. The unit deployed to intercept him was OZ Unit 171, which he promptly decimated before vaporizing the satellite. Layla's older brother, Hadi al-Nahdiyah, was a war correspondent attached to that unit. He was killed, along with everyone else on the satellite.

_3_Members of the Senate (elected officials) and the House of Lords (hereditary seats), the bicameral chambers of the Earth Sphere Parliament, have diplomatic immunity and cannot be arrested or charged with a crime except through impeachment proceedings. Dorothy has claimed the Catalonia seat in the House of Lords, thereby gaining diplomatic immunity.

_4_After the Mariemaia Army's failed coup d'état in AC 196, the Preventers relocated their headquarters to The Hague, Netherlands: home of the International Criminal Court, which prosecutes individuals for genocide, crimes against humanity, war crimes and crimes of aggression. This is the Earth's highest criminal court of law. Crimes committed in space and appealed from lower courts are tried on the geosynchronous space station Themis. The Supreme Court of the Earth Sphere is in Luna, capital of the Moon, which has jurisdiction over the Earth, the Moon and colonized space.

_5_In episode 5, Treize Khushrenada orders the assassination of then Vice Foreign Minister Richard Darlian, Relena's adoptive father, whose overtures of peace to the Colonies threatened his plans for OZ. While on L1, Lady Une carries out these orders in front of Relena, throwing a bomb disguised as a cosmetic compact through the window of their meeting room, severely injuring Darlian and resulting in his death. By episode 49, Relena has ostensibly forgiven Lady Une's actions and in Endless Waltz, she is saved from falling rubble by Lady Une.

_6_In Endless Waltz, after the Mariemaia Army's takeover of the Brussels Presidential Residence, most of the citizens milling around on the streets seem resigned to the forceful regime change. Then Dorothy appears and mocks them: "That's funny. I see no men around here. The only men I see are either buried or always have their faces displayed up on that screen! Oh, pardon me. Let me correct myself. You're not the dogs that wag their tails in front of their master. In fact, you're the tail that gets wagged." This spurs the crowd into a frenzy and she transports them to the Presidential Residence to protest the coup d'état.

_7_In the manga Episode Zero, while living on L5-A0206, Wufei chooses to be a scholar instead of a warrior. This choice disgusts his wife by arranged marriage, Meilan, who tries to prove her superiority by taking the prototype Tallgeese to battle against Alliance and OZ troops who arrive to decimate the Dragon Clan. She is quickly overwhelmed and Wufei engages the forces in an incomplete Shenlong. At the last moment, an OZ soldier tries to kill Wufei by slamming his Leo in him, but Meilan protects him and is mortally injured. She dies in his arms in the field of flowers she loved and Wufei vows to become her arm of justice.

_8_In Episode 35, Wufei returns to the L5 colony cluster only to find that OZ is mounting an attack. Master Long, the head of the Dragon Clan, decides that the only way to live with pride right until the bitter end is to self-destruct and let Wufei be the successor. He watches helplessly in the Altron Gundam as the colony explodes.

-

* * *

A/N- Welcome to the second arc! A shoutout to my beta, Shadow Chaser: thank you for being a second pair of eyeballs, for all your insights and for putting up with my obsessive love of long sentences! As always, enjoy the footnotes, especially if your memory of the series is fuzzy. This arc is called _Choosers of the Slain_, because in Norse mythology, minor female deities known as Valkyries choose the most heroic of those who died in battle and carry them off to Valhalla – a sanctuary for the chosen slain. Once chosen, they become Odin's warriors, who are destined to fight at his side at the preordained battle at the end of the world: Ragnarök.

Before Ragnarök, three events must occur. The second of these is the death of Baldr, the god of innocence, beauty, joy, purity, and peace; and the binding of Loki, the mythical trickster, a being of deception. Loki gave birth to the three monsters: Jörmungandr, the sea serpent; Fenrir, the wolf; and Hel, ruler of Helheim (Hell). In the previous chapter, I mentioned that thematically: Dorothy was the serpent, Quatre was Hel and Sylvia was the wolf. Then who's Loki? And who's Baldr? Well, let's just say that readers met Baldr early on in the series and became aware of Loki's existence as puppet master around the middle. Thank you for reading!


	11. The Collector of Souls, Part I

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

Some of the dialogue between Dorothy and Sylvia is taken from a conversation between Ellsworth Toohey and Peter Keating in The Fountainhead.

_In chapter seven of Birth and Binding, Sylvia Noventa remembers a teacher in theology class asking her: __"What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?"_

_She replied, "Then in order to be truly wealthy, a man should collect souls?"_

* * *

_Choosers of the Slain_ II:

**The Collector of Souls, Part I**

by Terra

* * *

Larochette Castle, known locally as Château de Larochette, rested atop a steep crag like a specter overlooking the sleepy village and the river Ernz Blanche that flowed restlessly below._1_ It stood in defiance of time and revolution as a testament to the indomitable spirit of men who once understood the true meaning of aristocracy – and their charge as caretakers of the surrounding land and its people. Built at the end of the 11th century, it was a fortress made to withstand even the crippling realities of a siege. In the three centuries before a fire ravaged it, countless noble families had called it home. The first time it burnt down, the year was 1565.

In the ensuing centuries, it had become a quarry to the locals and a fleeting novelty for tourists who steadily pilfered from its rocky body until what remained threatened to collapse under its own weight, like a spider's web woven with too few strands. When a business trip to the Duchy of Luxembourg necessitated a tour, Quatre saw the ruins of Larochette and decided at once to restore it. He had never been able to ignore the call of helpless, rustic beauty. He made the capital his corporate headquarters in Europe and his request to transform the previously public museum into his own private fortress was immediately granted.

The second time it burnt down, the sun had not yet risen on an overcast morning in October in the year AC 205. His escape from Davos landed him at the nearest Winner estate, where since his identity had been broadcast across the Earth Sphere, violent mobs and caravans of reporters had congregated on the chance that he was ensconced inside. It was there he had waited for Layla to come to him, as he knew she would. Minutes before the first explosion at the gates, he was sitting in his favorite study in Créhange Manor, the main house, speaking on the vidphone with his sister Iria.

He was saying to her from across countless digital miles in a detached manner: "I've been expecting this for weeks. The fallout is a little worse than I'd predicted, but there are contingency plans."

"Did those plans include being hunted like an animal? I know you warned us that we'd all be in danger. And I've done what you've asked to make sure our sisters are safe," said Iria, the brightness of the vidscreen amplifying her worried expression and aggravating the lines of her no longer youthful face. "But by exiling us all here, you've tied my hands. There's nothing I can do to help you, Quatre."

"I had hoped that would be the case." Quatre smiled ruefully. "I can't risk them hurting my family to get to me."

"That's not stopping people from torching anything with the Winner emblem on it." Her frown deepened. "I can't imagine what the death toll would look like if you hadn't sent most people home before the news broke out. They're reporting that three of our main branches in Europe have been bombed and thoroughly looted, or so Fatima tells me." Iria's face twisted into a grimace as she told him: "She's trying to spin this in the media by disowning you. Last I heard, the board of directors voted you out in an emergency meeting. She wants the official family story to be that we had no idea you played any part in the war."

"I'm still the majority shareholder," he replied, the angular planes of his face arranged in an uncompromising mien, as if this news had no power to hurt the motive and will that smoldered unrelentingly beneath. "I counted on her renouncing me to spare the family. It's better this way. I'll have more freedom of action."

"This latest escapade of yours, dear brother, has done nothing to endear you to her," Iria informed him, the edge of humor in her voice briefly softening the severity of her expression. "I really think she would try to kill you herself if she had the chance."

"Fatima thinks that everything I do is spitting on father's grave. She lost her capacity to forgive me years ago. Don't torment yourself on my behalf. I have lost nothing I regret losing."

"You may not have any regrets, but I don't know what I would do if I lost you, too. All of us feel the same way. Please be careful," she implored softly. "The family still needs you, little brother."

"I won't run this time from the world's derision. If I could spare the family, I would."

"Don't worry about us, Quatre. We can weather this. The only thing any of us care about is your safety. And actually — I have a few messages for you. Naseem wants you to know that she won't let the unrest on the other colonies spread to L4. Kalila and Nadia send their love and prayers. Talitha wants me to give you the contact information for," he watched her image on the vidscreen glance down at an austerely embossed business card, "an Andrey A. Kirsanov. Apparently, he's an expert on the Geneva Conventions who owes her a favor." Her brow creased in concentration. "The name sounds vaguely familiar."_2_

"You're thinking of Arkady Kirsanov. He's the Russian aristocrat who revived the Romefeller Foundation after Treize's death."_3_

"Dorothy Catalonia is a member of Romefeller," she said with distaste. "It would make sense for them to be behind all this."

"Iria, you'll have to trust me when I say this – but Dorothy's not to blame for the leak."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because of who she is. And — because I know. I can feel it. Whatever anyone does to her now, it won't be any worse than what she's doing to herself."

"What do you mean you can feel it? Is she there with you?" asked Iria, her blue eyes widening in alarm.

"No. Une will have taken her into custody by now. I saw her two weeks ago at Layla's _Society _banquet."

"How is Layla?" she asked softly, regretfully.

His reply was curt: "She left."

"I'm sorry, Quatre," Iria hesitated, "but I think – I think it's for the best. She wasn't right for you."

He smiled wryly, absently noting the sharp pain at the mention of Layla's name that was already fading. "That's not what you told me when you met her."

"It's just — when I saw you together, I couldn't see any future for you two. She didn't ask me anything about the family or about you. It's like she never intended to stay around long enough for us to matter. I watched her around you. It was – it was almost as if she loved you so much that she didn't care what you or the family thought about her."

"Layla never wanted anything from me. In thirteen months, she never asked me for one thing. Not gifts, not reassurances, not love. She let me have whatever I wanted from her, but never let me in. It's what I needed – someone who didn't need me."

"You make it sound like you were running away from something."

"You think so, too?" he asked, faintly surprised. "I wonder if that's why with Dorothy – it felt different."

"You're on a first name basis with that woman?" Iria interjected fiercely. "What were you doing at the banquet? Please don't tell me you—"

"We played a game of chess. We spoke. That was all."

The relief was sharp on her face. "And you were able to read her? She didn't fight you?"

"No. She doesn't seem to know about my empathic abilities." His voice softened in remembrance. "I could feel her pain, Iria. She's not our enemy."

"But what about Romefeller? You can't ignore her connection to them."

"You're right. I can't rule them out. But it's not likely that Kirsanov's involved. I've done business with him. I had him thoroughly screened beforehand. He's a pacifist. He was one of Relena's ardent supporters during her days as Queen of the World. And he lost a son in the Eve Wars." Quatre shook his head. "No, he doesn't fit." He added, his voice briefly conveying regret: "Will you tell Naseem that I'm sorry for ruining her political career? The Foreign Ministry is probably out of her reach now. And thank Talitha for me. In the best case scenario, I'll have to stand trial. It wouldn't surprise me if the ESUN made me their first target."_4_

"You know Naseem doesn't care about that. She's just sorry to lose to that haughty aristocrat – what's her name?" responded Iria impatiently. "Nova...something."

"Sylvia Noventa," he finished slowly, contemplatively. "I was warned about her. It didn't occur to me that she would be any kind of threat. But if this is what she was after all along—" A rumbling in the distance cut him off. He had enough time to catch Iria's shocked expression before he lost the connection. The lights flickered once, twice before drowning him in darkness. Quatre heard the faint staccato of machine gunfire before the concussion from a second explosion nearly felled him. It was much closer.

As he reached under his desk to key in the code to open the bookcase, the emergency lights abruptly bathed him in neon red. He crossed the study to the bookshelf spanning the length of the eastern wall as it slid open to reveal the fluorescently lit passage leading to the tunnels beneath the fortress. Reaching for the handguns holstered to the wall inside, he heard shouting through the door; it was a chaotic mix of Arabic and German that told him insurgents were inside Créhange Manor. The unmistakable racket of a gun battle became louder and louder until Quatre could hear his bodyguards engaging them in the hallway outside the study.

Lifting two handguns from the rack, he cradled its familiar weight in his hand before releasing the magazine to check that it was fully loaded – an instinctual motion that he performed unconsciously – then slid the clip back in. He turned off the safety. Glancing at his wristwatch, he calculated that it had been almost two minutes since he had heard the explosion at the gates. The nearest law enforcement was at least seven minutes away. Slipping the other handgun into the back waistband of his pants, he leaned against the door's hinges and reached across to the partition in the double-doors to unlock it.

His hand had just touched the handle when the doorway exploded.

-

With the curtains unfurled over the windows of her home office, so that the peering light of the morning was muffled behind the nearly opaque cloth shrouding the panes, Dorothy sat at her desk in her penthouse in Brussels. She was correcting the latest draft of an article for her column when she heard the doorbell. She ignored it. It rang on heedless and insistent, a heartbeat that pounded rhythmically and relentlessly in her ears. She heard the steps of her maid in the hall and the ringing abruptly stopped. Clarice came in meekly, her movements cautious in the knowledge that she had disobeyed Dorothy's explicit instructions to ignore all visitors. Her voice pled thinly, tentatively: "Please. A lady to see you, madam."

Relena? Or is it Une? – she wanted to ask, but said instead, "Show her in."

When the door opened, cast in the light of the hall, Dorothy saw the angular shoulders and prim posture of Sylvia Noventa, her sonorous voice pronouncing: "Good morning, Dorothy."

She smiled in recognition of the tacit understanding between them, meeting indifferently the predatory glance of a woman who expected, and enjoyed, seeing someone in her power. Dorothy answered complacently, "Good morning, Sylvia. You've just missed my being sprung out of jail."

"You should have expected me this morning." Her guest turned to the maid and requested, "Darjeeling, please, if you have it, and I'm sure you do."

Dorothy nodded her assent to this order and the maid went out, closing the door behind her. "Of course, I did. It's why I told Clarice not to receive any visitors today."

"It's too late to renege on our arrangement," said Sylvia, glancing over at the computer screen, a small smile on her lips when she recognized it as the latest _One Small Voice _article. "Don't become reckless, Dorothy. Things have just begun. You should be very careful with what you write. Your next column will sell unprecedented issues of _Society_."

"What do you want?" asked Dorothy coolly.

"Power. What else is there?" She shrugged carelessly at the look of surprise on Dorothy's face. "What? Come now. There's no longer any need for me to be evasive." She added as an afterthought: "We understand each other perfectly so I don't mind telling you. I've always said that I wanted power to anyone who's ever cared to listen. It's not my fault that people couldn't hear or didn't want to. Their willful deafness has protected me better and more completely than anything else. I intend to rule. I shall rule. More successfully than any of my spiritual predecessors."

Dorothy's voice was faintly curious. "Rule whom?"

"You. The Quatre Winners. The world. It's only a matter of discovering the lever. If you learn how to rule one single man's soul, you can get the rest of mankind. It's the soul, Dorothy, the soul. That's why the Caesars, the Napoleons," she smiled a little too widely, almost indecently, "the Dermails, the Khushrenadas were fools and did not last. I will."

"By conquering the soul?"

"Yes. It's every man's strongest and weakest point. The soul is that which can't be ruled. It must be broken. Drive a wedge in, get your fingers on it and the man is yours. You won't need a whip – he'll bring it to you and ask to be whipped. Set him in reverse – and his own mechanism will do your work for you. Use him against himself. Want to know how it's done?"

"All right," replied Dorothy politely.

"There are many ways. Here's one. Make man feel small. Make him feel guilty. Kill his aspiration and his integrity. It can be difficult, because even the dredges of men cling for an ideal," said Sylvia disdainfully. "The only way to kill integrity is by internal corruption. Use it against itself. Direct it toward a goal destructive of all integrity. Preach selflessness. Tell man that he must live for others, that altruism is the ideal. Naturally, not a single one of them can truly do it. Once man realizes that he's incapable of what he's accepted as the noblest virtue, he'll come to feel sinful, guilty, acknowledge his own basic unworthiness."

"And that's when he's yours?"

"Yes, that's when I've got him. Once his soul gives up its self-respect he'll obey and be glad to obey, because he can't trust himself, he feels uncertain, he feels unclean. He's drawn like a moth to paragons of virtue who preach what man can't practice and talk endlessly about love, love for mankind but not for any single man. So he learns to resent those who do act, who distinguish themselves and aren't paralyzed by spiritual ineptitude. He learns to hate heroes. Do you see?"

"Yes."

"Here's another. Kill man's sense of values. Kill his capacity to recognize greatness or to achieve it. Great men can't be ruled. We don't want any heroes. Don't deny the conception of greatness. Destroy it from within. The great is the rare, the difficult, the exceptional. Worship mediocrity, praise the substandard in men, make humility and groveling to public opinion the greatest virtues and you stop the impetus to effort in all men, great or small," declared Sylvia, smiling contemptuously.

"And then what? That kind of world couldn't sustain itself."

"That's why I adore you, Dorothy," said Sylvia mockingly. "You're so – so innocent that you can't understand why men would choose slavery. Why they would choose not to be free. That kind of world, as you put it with such disdain, is made to sustain itself. It is its own end. Once it's reached that point, it can never be anything else. No one could – or would ever want to – rise up and change it again. Everyone will be equal."

"Equally damned."

"Quite right," she retorted good-naturedly. "The only way to run society into the ground is by stopping all incentive to improvement, to excellence, to perfect. Laugh at Quatre Winner and hold Peter Weyridge as a great businessman. You've destroyed commerce. Don't set out to raze all shrines. Enshrine mediocrity and cowardice and the shrines are razed."

"Laugh at him?" asked Dorothy flatly, sitting with her fingers laced in her lap, coolly attentive as if reading from a script and waiting for her next line.

"That's the other way. Kill by laughter. Laughter is an instrument of human joy. Learn to use it as a weapon of destruction. Turn it into a sneer. Make it meaningless by telling them to laugh at everything, that a sense of humor is an unlimited virtue. Don't let anything remain sacred in a man's soul – and his soul won't be sacred to him. Kill reverence and you've killed the hero in man. He'll obey and he'll set no limits to his obedience, because everything is permissible – any foul, indecent thing – when nothing matters."

"That's important to you, isn't it? Killing heroes."

Sylvia's elegant face twisted into a sneer; the effect was immediate and astonishing in the transformation it wrought. Her serene expression became ugly with condescension, warped with anger masked by contempt. "Don't talk to me about heroes," she spat out. "I'm ten times the humanitarian any of them are. I give men what they truly want: freedom."

"That's why you hate heroes, isn't it?" continued Dorothy coldly. "You have no power over them. You can't make them choose your kind of freedom."

"That may be true for now. But the people won't stand for it. Why should any of them be shamed by heroes into taking action? I allow men to remain men; they can live by their base instincts, be as cowardly as they choose and no one will ridicule them. It's the ultimate freedom. Freedom from thought, responsibility, consequence. Freedom through slavery. Give up original thought and you can be safe, your self-esteem forever cocooned in the undiscriminating love of brotherhood."

"That kind of love won't mean anything. Loving everyone is the same as loving no one. Love is the best form of discriminating. Choosing someone because they're special, because they mean something to you, because they deserve your love. Loving every stranger on the street as you would your family makes love worthless."

"Of course. That's the entire point. Erase the individual from the equation, dilute feeling and thought, make everyone dependent on everyone else. That's how the world of the future will sustain itself."

"You can't break them all. There will always be one or two who will fight you."

"All the better. I won't have to lift a hand to destroy them. They'll do the job admirably themselves. This is most important, Dorothy. Don't allow men to be happy. Not as children, not as adults. Happiness is self-contained and self-sufficient. Happy men have no time and no use for you. Happy men are free men. So kill their joy in living. Take away from them whatever is dear or important to them. Never let them have what they want." Sylvia laughed delightfully. "You know that I'm right. I can tell that you understand. It's why you won't ever do anything you truly like. Because you're afraid they'll steal it from you, tear it to shreds gleefully in front of you just to see you squirm."

Dorothy clenched her fists. "What do you want?" she asked again.

"I want people to feel that the mere fact of a personal desire is evil. I want them brought to a state where even saying 'I want' is no longer a natural right, but a shameful admission. I want to make them incapable of even saying 'I.'"

"Altruism," she said in sudden realization. "That's why you've set yourself up as this – this humanitarian."

"Yes. I'm so glad you understand that. Altruism is a great help in this. Unhappy men will come to you. They'll come for consolation, for support, for escape." Sylvia added with brutal satisfaction: "Empty their souls and the space is yours to fill."

-

Everything was silent. He slowly became aware of the sharp weight digging into his side; his lungs burned from the effort to inflate. He tried taking shallow breaths; but the weight crushed against his chest, the lower half of his body, his right arm. His throat was clogged and he couldn't make a sound. He could see the remnants of his study as the emergency lights flickered on and off. He still heard nothing. Through the dust, the debris, the scattered burning pages of his books, he could see two men surveying the room carefully, machine guns gripped expertly in their hands. "Clear," he saw one of them mouth, his raised fist loosening to wave the other man closer. Their stance belied their military training.

Watching the flashing red lights and suddenly registering that he couldn't hear the intruder alarm that should be blaring – that he wasn't hearing anything at all – Quatre realized that he was deaf. The explosion must have blown his eardrums. He could still feel one gun digging into his back; the other was gone. Through the crater in the wall where the double-doors had been, he saw bodies. The bodies of his men he recognized by their suits, but the others wore civilian clothing – their faces twisted in fear, anger, hate in their last moments.

Quatre ran his free hand along the weight pinning him down. The smooth edges and sharp corners told him it was a bookshelf. Only the fallen books around him propping its weight kept it from crushing him. But he couldn't move; his legs were wedged beneath the bottom shelf. There was nothing he could do, but wait for them to notice him. He turned his head to check their progress. He read their lips when their faces became visible in the flashes of red light that shone every other second, painting the room bloody before fading again.

He saw the younger man curse as he waded through the debris, saying: "I thought—he—in here. —guys outside—acted—he was."

"It could've—a feint," the older man acknowledged. "Lure—here—him time—to escape." He slowly walked the perimeter of the room, his keen eyes missing nothing as he kicked away books and broken shelves. He was only twenty feet away. It surprised Quatre when he was finally discovered that it was the younger man who had spotted him first. He opened his mouth wide as if shouting, "There! Daniel, under—him!"

When they moved closer, Quatre saw the feverish, manic look in the younger man's eyes, watched his fingers clench nervously over the trigger of his gun. The man called Daniel shoved him aside to look at Quatre; then he looked at the bookshelf. He frowned. "Don't—my name—loud."

"What does—matter?" asked the other man, grinning, leaning close enough that Quatre could see his bloodshot eyes and dazed expression. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes were black. He recognized his condition instantly; the man had been drugged or he had taken drugs; he was high. "We're here—kill him. I don't care—knows my name. I want him—know it! It's Carlos—" he declared, staring straight at Quatre as he aimed his machine gun at him, "—Carlos del Toro!"

"Stop it—fool!" Daniel knocked the gun away as it went off. Quatre fought the instinct to flinch; it was a near miss; he could see the scorch mark the bullet made in the carpet inches from his head. "That's not—we came for."

"Are—crazy?" Carlos's mouth contorted in a yell, turning his gun against his comrade. "I came—put bullets—this son-of-a-bitch. What—hell—think you're doing?"

"I didn't come—kill—helpless man. I'm here to—he doesn't run and hide—place no one—ever find him. I want justice—" Daniel glared at him fiercely, "—court of law. I want—answer for his crimes—front of the world."

"That's not—enough! —a rich bastard. He'll—buy—way out. If we don't—he's going—walk!"

Quatre inhaled as deeply as he could, swallowing harshly to dislodge the knot in his throat, then tried to speak. He coughed violently, each wracking motion digging the shelf deeper into his ribs. He thought he might have rasped, "I won't run." It was strange not being able to hear, not knowing for certain if he had pronounced the words correctly, if he could be understood. He became keenly aware of the air rumbling in his chest, vibrating in his throat – a sensation he had never needed to notice before. But his ears still throbbed with painful silence. Immediately, both men trained their weapons back on him. He could see their startled faces clearly.

Quatre tried again: "If…there is a trial…I would – I would turn myself in."

"Liar!" Carlos sneered, the flickering light illuminating a face flushed with hatred. "Why—you talking like that? —wrong with you?"

"It's—bookshelf," answered Daniel, his eyes widening in realization. "He can't breathe. We need to—him out from under there." At the other man's motion of protest, he pointed at Quatre angrily, his face indignant, "—going to shoot him like this? Well, are you?"

"Fine! But only because—him to be standing—I shoot. I want him to know—coward he is!" Carlos looked hard at Quatre, his upper lip curled in a snarl. "You move without my—I'll put a bullet in your head."

Quatre watched as they carefully set their guns on the ground – out of his reach – and stood on either side of him; both men clutched a corner of the shelf, heaving against it, their arms straining with the effort to lift it. It rose an inch, then another, then one more and when he no longer felt the pressure on legs, he slowly started pulling himself out. The moment he was free, Carlos jumped back to snatch at his gun. He gestured with it for Quatre to rise. He staggered to his feet, testing his balance and feeling the strength rush back into his legs; looking at them directly, he saw the shifting emotions on their faces – the grim determination in Daniel's face and the madness in Carlos's eyes.

Standing so close to them, Quatre found it easier to lip read Carlos's demand: "Get up. No quick moves."

Silently obeying, he stood cautiously, his movements deliberate and nonthreatening, his hands slowly raised in the air. He could feel the imprint of his handgun against his back; it was still tucked in his waistband. Enunciating precisely, he said: "I lost my hearing in the explosion. I'm not speaking like this on purpose. If you talk slowly, I can read lips."

"You're…coming…with…us," said Daniel, staring at him distrustfully, scrutinizing him for a sign he was lying. Without warning, he abruptly fired off a shot to the side. Quatre stood perfectly still, calm, not startled; he had seen Daniel fire, but he hadn't heard the report of the gun. After a long moment, apparently satisfied, he motioned towards the doorway. Daniel continued slowly: "The ESUN may not have charged you yet, but they will. We're turning you—"

"Wait! I don't think so," Carlos interrupted, scowling. "This ends here. I'm not waiting—for some court—years to put him to death."

"It isn't up to you. We kill him—we're no better than he is."

"He killed my wife! —he's not going anywhere!" Carlos's mouth contorted in a scream as he whipped his gun around and fired off two rounds point blank into Daniel's chest. As the bullets bit into him, he staggered back, his eyes wide in shock; the first bullet lodged harmlessly into the Kevlar, but the second sliced into his side, digging into the ribs underneath his arm through a gap in the bulletproof vest. Blood stained his shirt as it welled out of the wound in an expanding wet circle. Before Daniel fell to the ground, Quatre was in motion, gritting his teeth against the exploding pain in his chest and ignoring the weakness in his legs; he lunged for Carlos's gun with one hand and drew his handgun with the other.

Carlos cursed as the man he had thought his prisoner grappled with him and then forced him to freeze as he suddenly felt the cool steel of a gun pressed against his temple. "Don't move," ordered Quatre, flinging the machine gun away when the other man's grip loosened in surprise.

"Where did you get that?" asked Carlos, dumbstruck.

"It doesn't matter." Quatre glanced briefly at the man bleeding on the ground. "Daniel," he said, hoping his companion's name would focus his attention, make him more cooperative, "needs help. He's going to bleed to death."

"Stop talking—me like that. I'm not stupid. You'll—pull that trigger, because there's nothing you can—stop me from killing you—my bare hands, if I have to," he promised darkly.

"I'm sorry about your wife," replied Quatre steadily, unfazed, with a firm grip on the gun. "How did she die?"

"What do—care?"

"Tell me about her."

"You killed her. —in my place. I was stationed—the OZ carrier—with General Treize's ship. But they—me in the hospital and they sent—sent Mirta instead. She was on the bridge. You destroyed it! —never found her body. It's still—somewhere—in the ocean. You bastards!" he choked out with tears in his eyes, no longer shouting; the fanatical anger slowly draining away until he was swaying on his feet, his eyelids drooping as the adrenaline rush faded.

"I never attacked an OZ warship. Or Treize directly," said Quatre with careful emphasis on each word. "Unless you mean after New Edwards. But that wasn't me. It was a Gundam attack, but it wasn't me."_5_

"Liar!" he panted, fighting to stay focused on Quatre's face, as if he could no longer sustain the physical exertion of his grief. "I know—was you. I know you were there! —kill me. Kill me! You—murderer!"

"I won't. I'm sorry," said Quatre with regret. As Carlos's eyes widened in realization, Quatre struck the side of his head with the grip of his handgun. He crumpled to the ground. Immediately, Quatre turned around to check on the older man and froze. He felt the unmistakable pressure of the muzzle of a gun pressed into his shoulder blade. It was Daniel. He had left him alone too long. The older man stood cradling the machine gun with his left hand, his other pushing futilely against the bleeding wound beneath his underarm. His face constricting in pain, Daniel ordered slowly: "Drop it. Or I will shoot you."

Quatre stared intently at him, at his shaking hand, his labored breath. He let go of the gun. He couldn't hear where it had fallen. "You need to stop the bleeding," he answered, nodding at his red-soaked shirt. "You're a good man. Don't die here."

"Did you mean it?"

"Mean what?"

"When you said you'll turn yourself in."

"Yes," said Quatre.

"You know — I believe you," he replied, gritting his teeth as he breathed slowly in and out, remembering to speak to Quatre with measured delay. "I think you actually mean it. Just who the hell are you?"

"I was – I am a Gundam pilot. Who are you, Daniel?"

"I'm just another useless war vet who lost everyone to OZ and you Gundams." He shook his head, as if chasing away unwanted memories. Grimacing, he admitted: "I didn't think you'd be so young."

"None of us were young," returned Quatre. "What we did – we believed in. We thought there was no other choice. I don't think any of us knew how powerful the Gundams were, how devastating they would be in battle."

"We knew. We knew that Gundams meant death. If one of you was around, none of us slept. We knew you would wipe us out. No one who saw a Gundam ever lived to tell about it. In those days, someone yelling 'It's a Gundam!' was enough to make every one of us think about deserting," he said, his beleaguered breathing becoming shallower, the gun in his hand shaking violently as he fought to stay upright.

"Daniel. You need medical attention," said Quatre sharply. "You're losing too much blood."

"I never thought I'd see the day. A Gundam pilot trying to save my life," he laughed, coughing as he pitched forward. Quatre dove to catch him, but he missed by inches when hot lead pierced his shoulder, flinging him hard on the ground. He instinctively made himself a smaller target; he registered immediately that someone was shooting at him from the doorway. Rolling away from Daniel, he pushed himself into a crouch and glanced up in time to see a woman running towards him, her gun blazing in front of her. Her shocked, triumphant face was the last thing he saw before he felt a concussive pain sear through his temple setting off an explosion of light. Then everything went dark.

When the sun finally rose, casting the sky in coral on the twenty-fifth morning of October, Larochette Castle burned down for the second time, shining like a beacon.

* * *

-

_1_Larochette Castle, also known as Berg Fels, is located in Larochette, Mersch in the district of Luxembourg. On a business trip in AC 197, Quatre bought and restored the fortress after deciding on Luxembourg as the corporate headquarters for Winner Enterprises International, a decision that the incoming CEO, his sister Fatima Winner, strongly opposed.

_2_The Geneva Conventions are the international standards outlining the treatment of non-combatants and prisoners of war. Even unlawful combatants who are not citizens of a neutral or hostile state retain protections under the Fourth Geneva Convention, which guarantee certain rights such as a fair and regular trial. In AC 170, under the guidance of renowned pacifist Heero Yuy, it became the interstellar standard for the humanitarian treatment of civilians and soldiers.

_3_After Treize's death, when its machinations in the Eve Wars became public knowledge, the Romefeller Foundation was disbanded. It was revived in AC 197 by Arkady Petrovich Kirsanov, a Russian count and majority shareholder of Vsparkhivat' (Russian for "soar"), the world's foremost aeronautical engineering firm. He expanded Romefeller's exclusive membership from only aristocracy and royalty to "new money" tycoons and entrepreneurs. A stalwart pacifist, his beliefs only gained conviction after the death of his eldest son, Alexey, in the first Eve War. He has two other sons, Stepan and Andrey, and a daughter, Marya.

_4_Talitha bint Zayeed Winner (age 31) is a lawyer and the editor of the Themis Law Review. Themis is the geosynchronous satellite where Outer Space's highest court of law resides. Iria (36) is a doctor on one of the Winner-affiliated mining satellites. Nadia (29) runs a public relations firm and Kalila (27), Quatre's youngest sister, is a bestselling author of historical romances.

_5_In episode eight, after Treize tricks the Gundam pilots into killing Alliance officials and pacifists (instead of OZ leaders), he escapes from New Edwards to his carrier in the ocean, flanked by two other warships. Trowa and Wufei pursue him. Mirta del Toro, Carlos's wife, is killed in action when Heavyarms destroys the bridge of one of the OZ carriers. Wufei lands on another, challenging Treize directly to a duel.

-

* * *

A/N- Many thanks to my beta Shadow Chaser for helping me slog through this chapter. Footnotes are once again included for your reading pleasure and I highly recommend reading them this chapter as they include very important plot information. This chapter became so long that I had to split it into two parts to get in all the plot points I needed. In here was the first bona fide "action" scene. And it was so hard for me to write! Especially with Quatre being deaf for most of it. I have a newfound appreciation for people who can spin out action thrillers like it's nothing. Thank you for reading!


	12. The Collector of Souls, Part II

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

Some parts of conversations in this chapter are taken from a discussion between Peter Keating and Ellsworthy Toohey in The Fountainhead.

_In chapter seven of Birth and Binding, a teacher in theology class asks Sylvia Noventa: __"What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?"_

_She replies, "Then in order to be truly wealthy, a man should collect souls?"_

* * *

_Choosers of the Slain_ II:

**The Collector of Souls, Part II**

by Terra

* * *

He could hear a beeping sound. It was a high-pitched whine, whirring in his ears in a continuous, steady rhythm. Quatre opened his eyes. He wasn't dreaming. He was hearing, could hear sounds all around him – the beeping of a heart monitor, the air pumping in his oxygen mask, the cracks of his bones when he shifted restlessly. His first impression was of warmth and bright light. Then the world came into focus and the blurry fuzziness became white-washed walls and fluttering curtains; his room looked nothing like a hospital.

He was in a tropically lit room and he could feel soft breezes on his skin. He smelled the ocean. He had just thrown the covers off when a deep voice rumbled from the doorway: "Welcome to Seychelles, Master Quatre."_1_

"Rashid!" said Quatre, startled; slipping off his oxygen mask. He tried to sit up, ignoring the blinding pain the movement caused, gritting his teeth against the nausea as the room shifted violently. He managed, "How did I get here?'

Rashid's amused, smiling expression became somber and Quatre knew he was speaking now, not to his old friend, but to the leader of the Maganac Corps. At his question, Rashid walked over to his bedside, sank down on one of the chairs and answered seriously: "We were coming to meet you in Luxembourg when we saw the attack. Auda arrived in time to save your life. He had – he had to kill a woman. He would be here now, but he's too ashamed to show his face to you. Commander Sadaul is with him now. I don't know if he will ever forgive himself."_2_

"She shot me," he murmured. "I remember." Meeting Rashid's grave brown eyes, he added: "Tell Auda to come see me. I won't have him punishing himself for this."

"Yes, Master Quatre. That woman...she shot you twice. The second bullet grazed your head," he gestured to his right temple, "so the doctors put you in stasis to prevent brain damage. They say you have a concussion. When we found you, your ears were bleeding."

"It was the explosion. It burst my eardrums," said Quatre, absently touching the bandage covering his head. "Hand me my medical chart?" Rashid gave him the binder hanging off the edge of the railing. He glanced quickly through it, scanning his blood work, x-rays and the notes scrawled in the margins. "Perforations in the tympanic membrane. It looks like the surgeons repaired it — good." He nodded, satisfied. "They did a good job. I was deaf after the attack, but I can hear fine now." Keeping his movements slow, he turned back to the other man; he asked: "And what about Daniel? And Carlos? The men who were with me?"

"The local authorities arrested Carlos del Toro," replied Rashid steadily. "As for the other man, this Daniel – the last I saw of him, he was en route to a hospital."

Quatre smiled; tired and strained. "I see. Please thank Auda for me. I've lost count of how many times the Maganacs have saved my life."

"No more than you've saved ours."

"How is my staff at Larochette? Were they able to escape?"

"Yes. Most were able to evacuate in time. The majority of fatalities were from the attackers and your bodyguards."

"I must speak with their families as soon as possible." When Rashid began to protest, Quatre added: "You know I can't stay here in bed when every minute is crucial. Their families will want an explanation. How is this being reported on the news?"

"They're calling it the Larochette Massacre," he said apologetically, sighing. "And a law enforcement disaster. Local PDs took almost eight minutes to respond and by then, it was too late to keep Larochette from burning down. There were dozens of reporters around before the attack so they caught everything on film. Everyone will see that you did nothing to provoke them."

"Maybe. But not until the public outrage dies down and cooler heads watch those videos. How were you able to get me out?"

Rashid cleared his throat, discomfited, a reluctant set to his face. He said cryptically, "We had help."

"From whom? The Preventers?"

"Not…exactly."

"Rashid?"

"We didn't have any other option," he said, resigned. "It was a tactical nightmare. We had no other way to carry you out, not with the police and firefighters everywhere. That's...when we ran into Zechs Merquise."

"Zechs?" asked Quatre, surprised.

"He flew down in a jet. He landed for us and took off again — before anyone could stop us."

"Where is he now?"

"He's outside. He's been waiting for you to wake up. I told him you were too injured, but he refused to leave without speaking to you."

"It's all right, Rashid. Let him in. One wanted man to another." Quatre smiled wryly. "He might even have advice for me. He's right. I do need to talk to him."

"If you must, Master Quatre," said Rashid slowly, unwillingly, his eyes lingering on the bandage around Quatre's head. Finally, he rose to his feet and walked through the door.

-

There was a soft knock on the door. It opened and her maid walked in with a tray, laden with a tea set, crumpets and Belgian chocolates. She curtsied awkwardly, balancing the tea service with one hand and holding open the door with the other. Setting it down on the table, Clarice said: "Darjeeling, madam. Shall I pour?"

"No. Thank you, Clarice," said Dorothy. "You may leave."

When her maid closed the door behind her, Dorothy lifted the teapot and began pouring. She inquired blandly as if they were old friends meeting for a morning tea party: "Sugar?"

"Yes." When she had taken a sip, Sylvia resumed her previous pose and asked derisively, "Surely, this isn't shocking to you, Dorothy?"

"No. I've seen you practicing your altruism for ten years," she answered, smiling bitterly. "I've seen it being practiced all over the world."

"Then why the disgust? You've known this was coming. Don't deny it," scolded Sylvia, delighted at the sudden violence of Dorothy's expression. "It's almost here: a world of obedience and unity. A world where the thought of each man will not be his own, but an attempt to guess the thought of the brain of his neighbor who'll have no thought of his own, but an attempt to guess the thought of the next neighbor — and so on."

"You're right. I am disgusted. But not with you, Sylvia. With this world — that makes someone like you possible. You're the perfect revenge. The great dehumanizer. There's nothing worse I could inflict on this world."

Sylvia laughed; a cruel, sonorous sound. "And nothing more inevitable," she said. "In my world, since all must agree with all, no man will hold a desire for himself, but will direct all his efforts to satisfy the desires of his neighbors. Since all must serve all, no man will work for so innocent an incentive as money, but for that headless monster: prestige. The approval of his fellows – the opinion of men who'll be allowed to hold no opinion. Not individual thought; only public polls. An average of zeroes. A world with its motor cut off and a single heart, pumped by hand. My hand...and the hands of a few, a very few others like me."

"Socialism?" asked Dorothy, amused. "How quaint. But you wouldn't want to be known as a collectivist. The twentieth century already proved the futility of that philosophy."

"Oh, no. Don't mistake me," she admonished, scoffing daintily. "Mine is the oldest one of all. Look back at history, at any great system of ethics and they all preach the sacrifice of personal joy. They've all had a single leitmotif: sacrifice, renunciation, self-denial. That's the best moral atmosphere for my work. Everything enjoyable, from cigarettes to sex to ambition to the profit motive, is considered depraved or sinful. Just prove that a thing makes men happy — and you've damned it. That's how far we've come. We've tied happiness to guilt. And we've got mankind by the throat."

"We?"

"Don't act coy. It doesn't suit you, darling." Sylvia looked affectionately at the woman sitting demurely in front of her. "You know that it's much too early to tip my hand."

"You believe that after this is all over, they'll let you rule?"

"They won't have a choice. The people will see me as a prophet. It'll be comforting and familiar – my message of sacrifice. It's been drummed into the minds of men for too many thousands of years as the pinnacle of virtue. But where there's sacrifice, there's someone collecting sacrificial offerings. Where there's service, there's someone being served," said Sylvia, smiling viciously. "The person, who speaks of sacrifice, speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master."

"Then the man who tells you that you must be happy, that it's your natural right to be hedonistic, that your first duty is to yourself – that's the only the man who's not after your soul?" asked Dorothy with polite curiosity; her interest manufactured, obligatory.

"Yes. That will be the man who has nothing to gain from power. But instead of being inspired, people will hate him for what he makes them see in themselves. They'll want to kill him for not needing them. When he comes, they'll scream their empty hands off, howling that he's a selfish monster. So, you see, mankind itself will be my weapon against heroes."

"It can't be an act."

"No. That would never be enough," replied Sylvia with the patronizing air of imparting a lesson. "One can't put on an act like that – of true subservience. Of complete submission to a world of unity and obedience. It must be an act inside, for oneself, and then there is no limit, no way out."

"And what of you? The rulers?"

"What of us? We'll achieve no more than anyone else. I'll have no purpose save to keep men content. To lie, flatter, praise, inflate their vanity. To make speeches about the people and the common good — as if by virtue of numbers," she bit out disdainfully, "great lumps of people are somehow nobler than one."

"When it's the exact reverse that's true?"

"Precisely. You can convince one person to be honorable, but a crowd, a mob, a nation? Hopeless. Dorothy, my dear, I'm the most selfless woman you've ever known. I have less independence than the man who I just forced to sell his soul. He, at least, has the option to use people for what they can give him. I want nothing for myself. I use people only for what I can do for them, to them. I have no private, insidious purpose. I only want power."

"You don't consider power to be a selfish motive?"

"Of course not. In the world of the future, it will be let all live for all. Let all sacrifice and none profit. Let all suffer and none enjoy. Let progress stop. Let all stagnate. There's equality in stagnation, you know. All subjugated to the will of all. Universal slavery with no masters. Slavery to slavery," declared Sylvia, a practiced smile on her lips, her eyes softening. "A great, never-ending circle. Complete equality."

"If you're going to be so honest, tell me why you're really here."

"Can't I just have come to gloat?" she replied lightly.

"I exposed them. I went on the air like you asked. Haven't I already fulfilled my purpose? What more do you want?"

"Dorothy, you needn't say it like that — like you'd agreed to do it as a favor to me. Let's call it what it was. Blackmail. Extortion," she said. "Compromise even. To delay the broadcast until they were in Davos so they'd be safe, so they'd have time to prepare. Let's get it all out in the open."

"What do you want?" repeated Dorothy.

"Why, isn't it obvious?" said Sylvia, her green eyes wide, indulgent. "I want you to testify for the prosecution."

-

Rashid returned a minute later, following cautiously behind a tall, blond man with shaggy short hair and glacial eyes that narrowed when he saw Quatre's condition. Rashid cast an untrusting look at his companion, probing him for any indication of unsavory motives, before inclining his head at Quatre – I'll be right outside, his nod said – and exiting the room. He left the door open.

Quatre turned back to his unlikely savior; the contrast between this stranger and the man he had last seen on the bridge of Libra declaring war was unsettling. It took a long moment for Quatre to place a name to this man, who didn't look capable of waging interstellar wars or unleashing eternal nuclear winters. He was surprised to see Milliardo Peacecraft – no, Zechs Merquise now – in jeans and a battered jacket. This man, standing casually and rumpled, couldn't be more incongruous from the regal, charismatic commander who had incited the Colonies to arms and inspired hundreds to die for him. "Zechs," he said finally. "I don't think we ever met — but you have tried to kill me so I think that entitles me to forego some formalities."

"Quatre," replied Zechs dryly; walking to the foot of the bed, the corners of his mouth curved with humor. "I just saved your life so I think that entitles me to the same."

"It's interesting. I think I'm beginning to understand your family better."

"How is that?"

"You're like Relena," he observed. "Always trying to save people from themselves."

"I promise you she won't think that's a compliment."

"Being compared to you?"

"I am the man who tried to destroy the world," said Zechs with irony. "Her opponents like to remind the electorate that we're related every election cycle."

"How fortunate then that the world thinks you're dead."

"Convenient," he agreed.

"Your return is very timely. What did you come back for?"

"Mars is a cesspool of corruption." His tone was sharp, derisive. "The government is politically unstable. There'll be a coup to overthrow the local ESUN regime any day now."

"The situation's deteriorated that much?"

"It shouldn't surprise you. Earth sent its most expendable castoffs to colonize Mars. Lock criminals, political radicals, zealots and the uneducated dregs of society in a deathtrap — and it's every man for himself," declared Zechs disdainfully. "The only neutral power bloc is shrinking. The refugees seeking asylum don't want any violence, but there are too few of them. Now that we're finally making breakthroughs, the settlers are slipping the nooses around their necks. They want independence."

Quatre predicted: "Rebellion will fan xenophobic fears here on Earth. War will make the mobs close ranks – make them more hateful, more violent. Relena and I had hoped news of her candidacy for president would give them pause."

"That was always unlikely. She's too popular on Mars. Spearheading the Terraformation Project gave her too much political capital. The Secessionists needed to act before she's sworn in as our second president."

"So you came to convince her to return to Mars with you?"

He said curtly, "Yes. But that's impossible now. Not with the escalation in worldwide violence and the government operating on lockdown. It's been," he glanced down at his wristwatch, "almost twenty-six hours since Dorothy went live with your names. I've been watching the newsfeeds all day. Relena's office still hasn't released a statement. What is she waiting for?"

"She's not ready to denounce us yet," replied Quatre absently, leaning back against the headboard, drumming his fingers unconsciously on the bedspread; deep in thought.

"It's political suicide to side with you now. The public outrage being what it is — if she doesn't condemn the Gundams then she'll be ousted." Zechs concluded grimly: "And if she refuses to resign, the House of Lords will impeach her."

"We haven't spoken since the Economic Forum, but you and I both know that she'll oppose the tide of public opinion for as long as she can."

"Yes," he conceded. "She's not enough of a politician for her own good."

Quatre laughed; startled to realize how much more approachable and human – how like his sister – Zechs was in person. "Relena places too much value on personal integrity," he shrugged, "what's a pragmatist to do?"

"Her idealism won't even make a dent. Not until the mobs stop howling for blood."

"She's worked miracles before."

"I wouldn't count on one this time."

Quatre acknowledged: "I'm not. Tell me more about the situation on Mars."

"It's more volatile than people here realize. But not as different as the rebels would like to believe. If I know anything – it's that bureaucrats and technocrats are incompetent no matter what planet you're on. I'm still not sure," he said deprecatingly, glancing out the window, his eyes unfocused in remembrance, "how we managed to build anything with the miles of red tape the ESUN tried to strangle us with."

"Earthside, the media has been spinning Relena as the savior of a project mired by budget shortfalls and corrupt management. Is the Terraformation further along than we've been led to believe?"

"The project wouldn't have gotten off the ground without her. Living conditions were unbearable at first. But we're very close to becoming a self-sufficient colony now. The Secessionists have been stockpiling shipments from Earth for months in preparation."

"And now someone's trying to incite a civil war while Relena's hands are tied by this crisis." Quatre frowned, trying to recall the last intelligence report he received. He continued: "I have some people stationed there. They assured me that Erik Skarsgärd is only a harmless figurehead. And that the Secessionists are too radical and unorganized. They have no popular support."

"Your people are right about one thing – Skarsgärd is just the face of the party. They call him 'The Norwegian,'" said Zechs with distaste. "But your intelligence is outdated. The Secessionists are a real power bloc now. A few months ago, they restructured their party, fired up their base, toned down their rhetoric. When the colony construction market imploded, Mars was hit the worst. The Earth Sphere slipped into recession and supplies slowed to a trickle. The Secessionists played the blame game — pointed fingers at Earth, and started gaining traction with the settlers."

"This Erik Skarsgärd. You say he's Norwegian? As in the former kingdom of Norway?"

"Yes," he affirmed. "The tip of Europe. It's a Romefeller stronghold."

"Romefeller again. Interesting. If Skarsgärd is only a figurehead then who's the real leader?"

"He isn't completely powerless. You should see him. All the women on Mars are mad for him," said Zechs sardonically. "If he runs for office — that's half the vote in his pocket." His tone became leaden with frustration: "The Secessionists received a large infusion of cash recently. Every channel I used to track down the source led to the same name: Marya Kirsanova. All that I know is that she's a Terran...and a member of Romefeller."

"What's her position?"

"She runs Romefeller's foreign aid agency, ESAID. On the surface, the money is clean, earmarked for infrastructure. But most of it has gone directly into the coffers of the Secessionsts."_3_

"A Terran funding a Martian rebellion? It's the Barton Foundation all over again," said Quatre thoughtfully, frowning. "Kirsanova...that's Russian. It's not that popular a surname. Any relation to Arkady Kirsanov?"

"His daughter. Where are you going with this?"

"If your information is correct, then her father is the man who revived Romefeller after the war. Too many of our problems are leading back to them. It can't be a coincidence."

"The question is: what does Romefeller have to gain from inciting rebellion on Mars?"

"I can't say. If Romefeller exposed our identities and is manipulating Martian politics, then they must be using one to distract us from the other. But which one is their main target?"

Zechs said contemplatively, "Turning public sentiment against you unifies the Earth. Turning Mars against the Earth will only strengthen that unity. Having a common enemy is the easiest way to usurp power."

"One of the Kirsanovs contacted my sister," he informed Zechs, whose eyes narrowed in suspicion. "He's the foremost Terran expert on the Geneva Conventions. I've been encouraged to seek his counsel."

"That family is too connected to recent events. If you consult him, and accidentally reveal where you are, you'll be playing into their hands."

"Maybe. But it'll open doors. Investigating Romefeller is priority one."

"Are you planning on conducting this investigation six feet under?" demanded Zechs.

"It seems to have worked wonders for you," he countered.

"You want to exile yourself to Mars for ten years? Believe me, I'm not standing in your way. You and I fit right in with the rest of the ex-war criminals. But barring that brilliant plan — what's your next move?"

"I'm turning myself over to Preventer protective custody. Then the ESUN will probably try me for war crimes."

"Do it soon. You have the best chance of defending yourself in court." Zechs added: "If you're acquitted, they'll have no grounds to charge anyone else."

"I know. But it won't change anything even if I win or the mob lynches me. Or I'm found guilty. No matter the outcome, a trial will divert the Earth Sphere's attention away from Mars. Then we'll have a coup on our hands. My guess is that Romefeller will sweep the parliamentary elections and depending on Relena's next move — maybe even win the presidency."

"Who's their presidential candidate?"

"Their current favorite is Lucien Reinard. Vice President Desmond fell out of favor with the public after the Poor Man's Fire in Brussels last month. The pundits went after him viciously," explained Quatre with an ironic smile. "He originally ran on a platform of poverty legislation reform."

"I've been out of the loop of Earth politics for too long. Reinard is a career politician?"

"Not just any politician. He's one of the elites. Served three full terms as the provincial governor of Northern Europe. The Senate even considered changing the rules to let him run for a fourth term."_4_

Zechs noted: "Sounds like Relena has real competition."

"Right now, her popularity with the people is hanging on by a thread. Everyone speculated that I would be her running mate...and they were right. Our friendship is too well-known. She'll survive this, but unless she makes her allegiances clear — you and I will besmirch her record too badly for her to recover."

"So you'll offer yourself up as a sacrifice. And then what?"

"It's not a sacrifice if it's freely given," asserted Quatre, tilting his head to the door. "Zechs, if someone came in here with a gun and opened fire, I'd give my life to save you. Not because it's any kind of duty. But for reasons and standards of my own. I could die for you. But I couldn't and wouldn't live for you. I can't and I won't live for the mobs."

"Would you?" he smiled unconsciously, bemused. "A man sacrificed his life for me once—" Zechs stopped abruptly, astonished; he had not meant to confess this aloud; after a moment, his face changed, no longer shuttered, naked in the realization that there was nothing he wanted to hide from this man. He continued, "...and he never knew who I was or why I wanted to invade the Sanc Kingdom. I never told him I only wanted vengeance against Daigonegell. Against the destroyers of my homeland and those who murdered my family. But he still believed in me. Why — I don't know. He stole the Tallgeese when he saw I was too badly wounded to pilot it."_5_

"What was his name?"

"Otto."

"Otto didn't sacrifice himself for you. He had faith. What he did was give you the most precious gift that can be given. Stop torturing yourself and accept it, honor it."

Zechs said slowly, "There was a woman...Sylvia Noventa, who came to Mars a few months ago. They called her the Humanitarian. She gave a speech on sacrifice and selflessness and virtue to a standing ovation. People clapped for half an hour. But what she preached were the things destroying the world. No one else understood, but she was praising the worst in men: actual selflessness."

"You realize that?"

"The way she described it was vicious nonsense. I'm not sure she knew what she advocated," he said dismissively, shaking his head. "Selflessness in the absolute sense? It's weakness and cowardice. It's what I couldn't understand about people for so long — why ten years ago, I allowed them to use me. That was the kind of man Quinze was: truly selfless. The people that woman admires have no self. They live within others. They live second-hand."_6_

Quatre contended: "It's easy to run to others. Harder to stand on one's own record. A person can fake virtue for an audience, but not in their own eyes. Our ego is our last line of defense, our strictest judge."

"That's why they run from it. They spend their lives running. It's easier to donate to charity and think yourself noble than to base self-respect on real virtues, on standards of achievement. It's too easy to seek substitutes: love, charm, kindness, charity. But there is no substitute for competence." Zechs laughed scornfully. "I wonder if she knows that I was the true embodiment of her ideal."

"I doubt she would approve of your motive."

"No. But motives can never alter facts. If it's true selflessness people are after, then they should've looked at me, at Treize. I've never owned anything. I've never wanted anything. If I were to set out in pure altruism to serve the people, then I would do exactly what I did. Obey the destructive impulses of the majority will; feed their blind hate, carry out their wish to kill and make war. When I was in the White Fang, I erased my ego out of existence – I emptied myself. So that I could be their instrument and give them the bloody massacre they wanted. And yet the history books call me corrupt."

"I didn't think you'd admit that to yourself," said Quatre eventually; amused, astonished, involuntarily contemptuous. "But that's not what Sylvia Noventa means by altruism. She means you shouldn't leave it up to the people to decide what they want. You should decide it. You should determine, not what you like nor what they like, but what you think they should like. And then ram it down their throats."

"Of course. What else can a person do if he must serve the people? If he must live for others? Either pander to everyone's wishes and be called corrupt or impose on them by force your own idea of the common good. Is there any other way?"

"No."

"What's left then? What begins when altruism ends?"

"The self. Being selfish, not selfless."

"I'm not an altruist, Quatre. I can't decide for others. I sold my soul once, but I had no illusions about it. I never believed what the public believed. And I've learned to despise them. I was prepared to barter my life, become a martyr and take all their sins with me, but I was stopped," spoke Zechs, a curious strain in his voice from suppressing the relief in his words – and astonishment that he should feel any liberation in admitting this truth to a man who had once stood adamantly against him.

"You would've taken a billion people with you. And unleashed a nuclear winter on the Earth. Forcing humanity to the stars where it's too dangerous to fight wars isn't creating peace. It's a more insidious form of enslavement. That's the kind of destruction true altruism makes possible. Genocide for the greater good. Or worse, a holocaust of souls."_7_

"It's what I wanted them to see. To realize what total war would look like, the kind of damage it would leave behind. I thought that I could rid Earth of all its weapons and make that humanity's last war. But even if Heero Yuy hadn't stopped me — I would have failed."

Quatre said gently, "You can't stop wars by taking away weapons and drowning the survivors in blood. That wouldn't have changed people. Not on the inside."

"Can it even be done?"

"I don't know. But I'm going to try," he vowed.

* * *

-

_1_The Republic of Seychelles is an archipelago nation of 115 islands off the coast of Africa in the Indian Ocean. Near Madagascar, it is the least populated of all the African countries. After rebuilding L3-X18999, Rashid Kurama and a few other members of the Maganac Corps came back to Earth and settled on one of the Seychelles islands to live in relative obscurity.

_2_Commander Sadaul was the leader of the village where the Maganac Corps hid underground during the series. He was driven out when OZ attacked because Quatre and Duo went there after the New Edwards Base incident. After the Eve Wars, he and many of his villagepeople uprooted and settled on an island in Seychelles, where the Maganac Corps is currently stationed.

3ESAID stands for Earth Sphere Agency of Interstellar Development, the foreign aid arm of the Romefeller Foundation. Marya Arkadeyevna Kirsanova is the chief operating officer; her office sets the agenda and determines which causes most urgently need aid money. (based off the real USAID organization)

_4_The ESUN Treaty dissolved all national and colonial borders effectively uniting the Earth Sphere under one central government. Provincial governors rule regions that often encompass several former nations. Lucien Reinard governed the Scandinavian Peninsula, which includes Norway.

_5_Otto was a lieutenant in the Specials Division (OZ) who appeared in the first nine episodes and greatly admired the Lighting Count. Zechs asked him to repair Tallgeese and after Operation Daybreak on May 19, AC 195, they invaded the Sanc Kingdom to overthrow the last remnants of the Alliance. Zechs was severely wounded from piloting Tallgeese so Otto stole it and went on a suicide mission, dismantling key defenses. Afterwards, Zechs infiltrated the Peacecraft Palace and killed Brigadier General Daigonegell, the man who planned the takeover of the Sanc Kingdom.

_6_Quinze, an adviser to politician Heero Yuy and co-orchestrator of Operation Meteor with Dekim Barton, recruited Zechs Merquise to become the leader of the White Fang and led the Artemis Revolution. Rebel colonists seized the Lunar Base and the Libra, setting into motion events that would lead to a final confrontation.

_7_When Libra's main cannon was destroyed by the Peacemillion crashing into it, Zechs decided to drop it on the Earth to force humanity to the stars where war is too dangerous to wage. If even one section of the Libra crashed onto Earth, it would result in catastrophic environmental damage due to its nuclear reactors. The dust created along with the nuclear fallout would block out the sun, creating an eternal nuclear winter. Earth would become mostly uninhabitable and eventually, billions of people would die.

-

* * *

A/N- Thanks so much to my beta Shadow Chaster for always editing so quickly and catching the mistakes. I try to limit my chapters to 6000 words but this ended up being twice that! This chapter is pivotal in terms of plot development. But was it too dense to read? Did you fall asleep on your keyboards? Comments or constructive criticism are very welcome. Thank you for reading!


	13. Only to a Certain Point, Part I

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

Some parts are taken from a conversation between Peter Keating and Dominique Francon in The Fountainhead.

* * *

_Choosers of the Slain_ III:

**Only to a Certain Point, Part I**

by Terra

* * *

After Sylvia swept out of her penthouse in cool fury at her refusal to testify, Dorothy sat still in her chair, elbows suspended on the armrests, silent, detached. She denied herself any relief of movement for over an hour. Then she shut off the recorder on her computer – the camera which caught Sylvia Noventa's every last confession – and wondered how the men on the other side, the Preventers watching, would react. She had told Wufei that Sylvia would come, would want to flaunt her success and that she should wait, play the game, to make her talk.

But apprehending Sylvia now would gain them nothing. As a seated member of the House of Lords, she had diplomatic immunity. She was untouchable – and questioning her now would be pointless. Dorothy was certain she was not the mastermind, and those pulling her strings could easily find a replacement Sylvia Noventa. There was only one avenue of action now: to tail Sylvia, ransack her house, investigate her records, anything to find incriminating evidence linking her to Romefeller. But that was a game best left to the law. She had other means.

Dorothy drifted to her windows and pulled the drawstring on the curtains, instantly blinded by the shafts of sunlight refracting off the metallic spires of Brussel's skyline. Refusing to shield her eyes, she unconsciously clutched the lush fabric, parted against the glass like the second act of a stage performance. _She would trap Lucien Reinard into speaking with her at Weyridge Isle_, she resolved, _and pledge herself to his cause_. She regretted letting Sylvia glimpse her true feelings; had she known Sylvia's true purpose in coming, she would've prepared herself to agree to testify and let none of the repugnance of such a request show on her face.

When Peter arrived, he found Dorothy waiting complacently, watching his approaching form, cut in a perfectly tailored suit for this occasion, as if he presented no further problem to her. At the easy acquiescence in her face, Peter felt a sudden stirring of panic. He rushed across the sitting room and knelt at her feet. "Darling! How terrible this must all be for you," he said, draping his hands over hers.

"In what way?" she replied, coolly puzzled.

"All the rumors. Of course, I don't believe a word of it. Everyone in our circle's wondering how you could possibly know…" his voice lowered to a hushed whisper, "the Gundam pilots."

"I met them during the war."

"That's — incredible. To think of the danger you must have been in!"

"It was nothing I couldn't bear."

"Does that mean – do you mean to say that you really did join the White Fang?" asked Peter, dumbfounded.

"Yes." Dorothy smiled softly in remembrance. "Milliardo and I played together as children. We were the offspring of a bygone era. It seemed fitting at the time that we would be martyred together."

"But Dorothy, they rebelled against us! The White Fang wanted to wipe us off the face of the planet!"

"And perhaps they should have."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing, Peter," she said. "Weren't you going to take me away from all this? We're going to be late to the airport. I do so want to see Weyridge Isle. I hear it's picturesque this time of year."_1_

Peter followed her helplessly as she slipped her hands from his, a gesture of dismissal he felt keenly. He still didn't know what to make of her. He knew she found him suitable as an inconsequential companion for an occasional, inconsequential evening. He thought she liked him. That was not an encouraging sign. He forgot at times that she was an heiress, beautiful, powerful; he forgot all the reasons that prompted him to want her; he felt no need to be prompted. He wanted her, without knowing why, without reason or justification. He became aware of everything in her presence; she incited excitement in him that was equal parts dismay and desire.

Mostly, Peter was helpless before her. He refused to accept that a woman could remain indifferent to him. But he was not certain even of her indifference. He waited and tried to guess her moods, to respond in ways she might find pleasing. But she never answered him in affirmation to any of his efforts. In the backseat of her limousine, on the way to the airport, he drew her close. He stressed the touch of his fingers on her back, tracing her spine, whispered into her ear. He did not even feel a tremor in her body. She looked at him with an unmoving glance that was almost expectation; she remained perfectly still, not withdrawing.

Frustrated, Peter let her go, moving away. He was surprised when she said nothing during the ride, silent in her corner of the limo. As far as he could remember, Dorothy had never before considered his presence important enough to require silence. She sat, her legs crossed, her coat buckled impeccably, her fingertips beating in slow rotation against her knee. Taking this as encouragement, he leaned over again, closing his hand softly around her forearm. Again, she did not resist; she did not answer; only her fingers stopped beating. His lips touched her hair; it was not a kiss; he merely let his lips rest against her pale blond strands for a long time.

He whispered: "Dorothy…I love you. You do know that, don't you?"

"Yes," she answered flatly; impersonal, with no sound of invitation. But she had never allowed such a declaration before. He kissed her brow, his heart pounding.

"You're so lovely. Don't laugh, please don't laugh! But…I love you...don't you know how beautiful you are?" Peter stared at her face, desperate to catch some hint of response or resistance; he saw nothing. He jerked her violently against him and kissed her lips. They were cold, unmoving. Repulsed, his arms fell open and he let her body fall back against the seat. He gaped at her, aghast. It had not been a kiss; he had not held a woman in his arms; what he had held and kissed had not been alive. It was not revulsion – he could have understood revulsion.

He stammered: "Dorothy… I – I've waited all this time. I never touched you. Not during all those days, all those nights in Sicily. So why—?"

The silence was deafening. Peter couldn't hear her breathe; it was as if he could kiss her again or go further to satisfy his desire but her body would not even notice it. She didn't answer, looking past him. He whispered stupidly, "Dorothy, didn't you want me to kiss you?"

"Yes," she said simply. Finally, she met his eyes and she was not laughing at him; she was as helpless in trying to respond to him as he was in resisting his desire.

"Haven't you ever been kissed before?"

"Yes. Many times."

"Do you always act like this?"

"Always. Just like that."

"Why did you want to be kissed?"

"I wanted to try it."

"You're not human, Dorothy."

"No. Not like you." She straightened her posture, the sharp precision of the movement a reassertion of control. She added carelessly: "I suppose I'm one of those freaks you hear about – an utterly frigid woman. I'm sorry, Peter. You have no rivals, but that also includes you. A disappointment, darling?"

"You – you'll outgrow it. Surely someday?"

"I'm not that young, Peter. Twenty-five is a long time. It must be an interesting experience to sleep with a man. I've always wanted to want it. But I never have."

"Dorothy! Do you mean to say — you're a virgin?" asked Peter, bewildered. As long as he had known her, she was always surrounded by men. How could anyone who looked like her still be untouched?

"I am," she confirmed, amused at his distress.

"Haven't you ever been in love at all?"

"I haven't. I really wanted to fall in love with you. I thought it would be convenient. There'd no trouble with you. But you see? I can't feel anything. I can't feel any difference, whether it's you or…" she finished carelessly, "André Seward."

Peter flinched. He flung himself away from her, creating as much distance as the backseat allowed him. He did not want to look at her. He stared bleakly out the window, his hands gnarled, clasping his knees; he throbbed with humiliation. He had forgotten her cruel indifference in the heat of desire, confronted in such close quarters with her beauty. But he remembered now the welling resentment he felt towards her. He remembered that she was powerful, connected, wealthy. He turned back, bracing himself for rejection, demanded: "Dorothy, will you marry me?"

"You're not serious?" she asked, astonished.

This time, he heard no simple, helpless confession in her voice; no intimacy – the first he had shared with her – even though her surprise was somehow more intimate and revealing than anything she actually said. But still, she spoke as if she did not care what she revealed or to whom. Peter knew he had to say it now while he was not thinking of her, deliberately ignoring the prospect of endless empty, gay smiles. He spoke rapidly, easily, lying: "I love you, Dorothy. I'm crazy about you. Give me a chance. If there's no one else, why not? You'll learn to love me, because I understand you. I'll be patient. I'll make you happy."

Dorothy shuddered, an echo of their first meeting surrounded by fading works of art, her eyes wide and glassy, and then she laughed. It was merry and carefree, simpler than any laugh she had ever shown him. The pale form of her coat trembling, she sat straight, her head thrown back, her expression open in derisive joy. Her laughter was not bitter or mocking, but simply joyful. She said earnestly: "Peter, if I ever want to punish myself for something unforgivable, if I ever want to punish myself disgustingly – I'll marry you. Consider it a promise."

"I'll wait — no matter what your reasons."

Then she smiled gaily; the cold, gay smile he dreaded. "Peter, you don't have to do it. Strangling someone with marriage just to own them ties a noose around your own neck. It's ultimately unsatisfying. I can't love you. You know that. But we're good friends, aren't we?"

-

Trowa remembered Dorothy Catalonia only abstractly. When he thought of her, he heard the scornful lilt of her voice, saw the uncertain set of her shoulders and the self-deprecating pinch in her eyes. He remembered her defeat on the Libra, her surrender to Quatre; the slump of those graceful limbs acknowledging that she straddled two worlds, one of them burning to ashes around her. Most of all he recalled the moisture that appeared suddenly, awkwardly, suspended on long eyelashes and refusing to fall, disappearing almost immediately. He couldn't call them tears. But ten years was a long time.

The socialite he met in Majorca was not the same woman he had seen crumpled on the floor of the Mobile Doll control nexus. This new Dorothy stood invulnerable, her glance directed upwards, her form exultant – not because anyone was watching, but because she knew of no other way to be. That's when he realized abruptly that she was beautiful; before he had acknowledged it in a clinical sense, observing her appearance with as much detachment as he monitored everything else; but on that beach, she looked radiant.

There was beauty in the suffering she chose to bear and in the futility of her method of protest – embracing a life that was the antithesis of her nature so that the world could never benefit from her having lived. And she had been right about him, hadn't she? He had lived the last decade in stasis, willingly melting into the pattern engrained in everyone around him: fade into the group identity, don't stand out, capitulate to the needs, desires, opinions of your brothers lest you be called selfish – all for Cathy's sake, he told himself. He resented Dorothy's sparring words that had shown him how transparent the illusion of his life was to her.

When she betrayed their secret to the whole of humanity, he was stunned. He thought she understood them, had understood him. He knew Dorothy Catalonia was a liar. But was the woman in Majorca also a lie? Removing his helmet, he looked up to see her limousine pull to a stop in front of the Soar Airlines private entrance. _A Romefeller subsidiary_, he thought darkly. He parked his motorcycle in the drop-off lane, moving out of the line of sight with swift, sharp movements, ignoring the protests from a security guard behind him.

He watched Dorothy step out of her limo, her body turned away from the man clutching her elbow, a pained expression on his face. He remembered how disdainfully she had introduced this dark-haired man as Peter Weyridge to him. His words carried: "Dorothy, you don't mean that! We're much more than just—"

"No," she interrupted. "Trust me, Peter. You'd much rather I be your friend."

"Don't be ridiculous. I love you! Do you understand that?"

"Yes. I heard you." Dorothy pulled her arm out of his grasp, sweeping onto the pavement. She nodded thanks to her driver who stood waiting with her bags loaded in a trolley. Her driver tapped his cap and responded: "Milady, your jet is fuelled and ready for departure."

"Muchas gracias, Josef. No te preocupes del equipaje. Puedes irte."_2_ She reached for the trolley, turning the dial to activate the wheels, steering it towards the glass double-doors which a doorman obligingly held open. At the doorway, she inclined her head back, asking gently, "Darling, are you coming?"

"Of course," snapped Peter. "I'm a man of my word, aren't I?"

"All right," she replied. "Have it your way. Sulk until you feel better."

When the couple disappeared through the doors, Trowa slung his satchel over his shoulder, slipping on a pair of sunglasses, and followed. The doorman peered at him – taking in his well-worn jeans, muddy boots, simple jacket with one darting glance. There was disapproval in his eyes. "How can I help you, sir?"

Trowa showed him his stolen Preventers badge. "I'm here to take a person of interest into custody. I'll need your cooperation."

"C-certainly," stammered the doorman, hurriedly opening the doors.

Trowa entered the airport, a gush of warm air fluttering his jacket, making him grateful for the long hair that obscured his face. He couldn't take any chances that someone would recognize him from the news reports claiming Gundam pilot sightings in Spain, Angola, L2. He saw Dorothy and Peter disappear into the gateway to board private planes. He followed them discreetly, having just rounded the corner when a man in a baseball cap and shades, moving in the opposite direction, collided with Dorothy. Trowa's eyes widened when in the same movement that the man grasped her arm to steady her, he pulled out a gun with his other hand, aiming it in Peter's face.

He heard the man hiss: "Don't make a sound. The lady and I are going to have a chat."

Dropping his satchel, Trowa slammed himself against the wall, keeping out of sight, unsheathing his gun and attaching the silencer. He had seen a silencer on the other man's weapon; this was no simple mugging. He heard Peter stutter, "W-what do you want? Money?"

"This has nothing to do with you. Keep quiet," ordered the man, "and I won't kill you."

"Leave him out of this," said Dorothy sharply. "Peter, it's all right. This man just wants to talk."

Trowa watched Peter clench his fists, staring wide-eyed into the barrel of the gun. The man jerked Dorothy towards him. "Let's go. Your flight manifest lists two passengers. That'll you and me. Peter, is it? Don't make any trouble and no one will get hurt." He waved his gun for emphasis.

Peter flinched. Trowa chose that moment to push from the wall, darting into view, aiming his gun automatically at the man's shoulder. Dorothy's attacker whirled around, turning his gun towards him. Trowa pulled the trigger instinctively. He pounded down the hall and saw the attacker stumble from the impact of a bullet tearing through his shoulder, reaching them just as Dorothy knocked the gun out of her attacker's hands, digging her heeled boot into his knee, kicking his legs from under him.

Trowa snatched the man up by the collar, slamming him face front into the wall; pressing his gun against his head, he immediately frisked him for more weapons. He found another gun in his pocket and a switchblade fastened to his ankle. He pulled out a cell phone and let it drop to the ground. He pocketed the knife and tossed the gun to Dorothy, meeting her furious gaze with grim satisfaction when she snatched it midair, released the safety and aimed it expertly at her attacker.

Trowa turned back to his captive, demanded: "Who are you?"

The man laughed. "Fate has a damned funny sense of humor."

Trowa slammed him into the wall again, wrenching the other man's arm behind his back in a painful lock. "Try again."

"What the hell is going on? Who are you?" shouted Peter, eyeing the shades covering Trowa's eyes suspiciously.

"This is Trowa Barton. You met him in Majorca, remember?" answered Dorothy, narrowing her eyes. "As for this man," she reached over and pulled off his sunglasses, "I don't know who he is."

"I do," said Trowa grimly. "It's been a while…Ralph."

Dorothy frowned. "Ralph?"

"Ralph Kurt," he elaborated. "We were in the same mercenary camp before the war."

"Hold on! Trowa Barton? As in the Gundam pilot? My god! It is you! From the island. I thought there was no way you could be—" Peter gaped. "You're a terrorist!"

Trowa ignored him. "Ralph, what is this about? Who ordered a hit on her?"

"You don't understand anything, do you?" sneered Ralph, his voice muffled against the wall. "You're the one who marked her for death!"

"What?" His grip loosened in surprise. Ralph immediately jabbed his free elbow into Trowa's ribs, wincing at the pain from his bullet wound. He snatched the wrist pinning him, twisting until he tore himself from Trowa's grasp. He dove headfirst for Peter, narrowly avoiding another bullet as Dorothy fired. Ralph wrapped his uninjured arm around Peter's neck in a chokehold, seizing his chin and clutching his forehead with his other hand. "Put 'em down!" he ordered. "Or I'll break his neck."

"Then you'll have nothing to bargain with," said Dorothy flatly, steely eyes flashing with anger. "You're outnumbered. Security will have heard that gunshot."

Trowa leveled his gun at him. "Ralph, let him go. If this is about me, make me your target. These two aren't involved."

"Is that what you think? Why don't you ask her about that?" he jerked his head at Dorothy. "She's pissed Romefeller off and they've come to collect."

"Romefeller? Sylvia—" Her tone was incredulous: "This is about me refusing to testify?"

"This is about tying up a loose end," snarled Ralph, gritting his teeth from the strain of keeping Peter in a stranglehold. Peter whimpered, his eyes darting from Dorothy's face to Trowa's in terror. "P-please," he whispered.

"Ralph, you don't have to follow their orders. Romefeller's no different from Sogran or the White Fang."_3_

He snorted derisively. "You think I don't know that, Trowa? You think I don't know they're just using me? Tell me something. You don't have a family, do you? You don't have anything they can use to hurt you, right?"

"What did they—?"

"You don't get it." Ralph's voice rose to a shout. "Those bastards have Chris's life in their hands! They'll let her die if I don't kill this woman!"

"You're wrong," argued Dorothy. "They'll let your Chris die no matter what you do for them. Who told you to kill me? Sylvia Noventa?" When he didn't respond, she tried again: "Chairman Langdon? Reinard? Count Kirsanov?"_4_

"I don't know, damn you! All I know is Chris's been in a coma since the car accident — and when they gave her something, she woke up. The mother of my children," Ralph choked out, bloodshot eyes wide in desperation, "woke up! Do you understand? She's going to die unless she gets another injection!"_5_

"Let Peter go," commanded Trowa, "and I'll do everything in my power to save Chris. But you have to let him go. You're not well."

"Not well? Do you have any idea what I've been through, Trowa? I haven't – I haven't slept in three days. Those bastards keep sending me updates of her vitals. And they're falling – all the time, they're falling!"

When Ralph made no move to release his hostage, Dorothy pressed: "How did they contact you? To give you orders?"

"There's no use tracking them. I tried. I tried everything." Shaking his head, he recited helplessly: "It was so simple. They wired me money, gave me weapons, told me where you'd be."

"This isn't—" Trowa broke off, tensing at the sound of running footsteps approaching. Someone had heard the second shot. If they found him here, Trowa knew he wouldn't be able to escape without a bloodbath. He started moving in the same moment Ralph flung Peter at him, blocking any clear shot, while he hurtled himself at Dorothy, wrenching the gun out of her hands as she pumped the trigger, startled. The gunshots echoed in the corridor, lodging harmlessly into the ceiling. Trowa caught Peter before intercepting Ralph, pushing him into the wall. Trowa was a blur of violence, grabbing the wrist holding the gun and snapping it in one burst of strength, grunting as Ralph's knee smashed into his side, ignoring his old friend's painful scream.

Ralph cursed viciously and backhanded him, trapped against the wall, unable to pull his arm back far enough for a heavier blow. Ears ringing, Trowa raised the butt of his gun to hit him when a cry stopped him. "Drop your weapon!" shouted the first security guard as he turned the corner, gun drawn. Three more appeared, training their guns on them. "On your knees!"

Ralph swore again, cradling his broken wrist as Trowa reluctantly dropped his gun and held his hands up. As soon as Trowa let go, Ralph tore down the hall towards the planes, sprinting at breakneck speed, ignoring the warnings from the guards who instantly opened fire. Trowa dove for Dorothy, pulling her and Peter to the ground, shielding them with his body. When the gunfire ceased, he felt Dorothy cautiously raise her head. Slowly rising to her feet, arms over her head, she declared, "I am Dorothy Catalonia and this man," she gestured towards Trowa, "saved my life. What are you doing just standing here? Go after him!"

"You lunatics almost killed us!" bellowed Peter, struggling to stand. "What the hell were you shooting at us for?"

Two of the guards immediately started running after Ralph. The third lingered; he asked: "Are you hurt? We heard shots."

"No, I don't think so." She shook her head, checking the other two for visible wounds. "Run along and capture that madman or I'll press charges for the inept security in this airport." She handed him her card and watched as the guard paled when he was done reading: Lady Dorothy Catalonia, esteemed member of the House of Lords.

Peter scoffed. "Speak for yourself! This man is Trowa Bar—"

"Don't be hysterical, Peter!" she demanded. "He's my friend. And he saved our lives."

Scowling, he fell silent, glaring at Trowa with distrust. Dorothy continued, "I assume you'll be needing statements from us. We'll wait here for you. Go and find my attacker."

The guard hesitated, torn between protocol and the imperious command of a noblewoman who had the backing of the Parliament. "I don't think—"

"That wasn't a suggestion," she said coldly. "I want him brought to justice. Now!" At her tone, he took a step back, shooting her a fearful look, before fleeing after his colleagues.

Trowa put down his arms. "Thank you."

"Don't be ridiculous." Dorothy stooped to pick up the cell phone Ralph had left behind. "Peter, you will not breathe a word of this to anyone," she stared him in the eyes. "If you care for me – if you love me at all, promise not to say anything."

"You're blackmailing me?" spat Peter. "At a time like this?"

"Precise because it's a time like this. Do I have your word?"

"Damn it. Yes – yes, of course you have it," said Peter resentfully. "But I won't harbor a dangerous fugitive. Not even for you."

"All right. That's not what I'm asking." She turned to Trowa, handing him the phone. "You need to leave. Now. Find me after I've sorted everything out."

Trowa nodded his assent, pocketing the phone and scooping up his discarded bag. He walked swiftly back to the entrance, ignoring the doorman's eager greeting. He mounted his bike and thundered down the drop-off lane as three squad cars pulled up behind him, sirens blaring. Turning into a garage, he cut the engine, wedging himself between a van and a truck. He undressed, unzipping his satchel for a fresh change of clothes and pulled out his handheld, turning to the local news channel.

-

It was seven hours later when the last camera crew and police officer left. When he returned to the Soar Airlines entrance, he found the man Dorothy called Josef waiting for him. Once he saw Trowa approaching, he informed him in a thick Spanish accent: "Her ladyship is waiting for you. Please follow me."

No one stopped them when they passed the gate and exited onto the tarmac runway. Dorothy's private jet sat gleaming rust in the setting sun, its tail painted with a bear rearing on its hind legs on the backdrop of a red shield. "My family's coat-of-arms," explained Dorothy, gazing down at him from the top of the boarding stairs.

"What does it mean?"

"Red is for strength. Military strength, naturally. The bear symbolizes strength, cunning, ferocity in the protection of one's family." She shrugged carelessly. "The Catalonia creed."

Trowa climbed the stairs until he was directly facing Dorothy. "Peter?"

"Gone. I sent him home to recover. I don't think he'll talk, but even if he does, I can take you anywhere you want to go. I won't let them find you." She entered the plane, settling into one of the plush seats. Her eyes lingered on him, expectant. "Well? Aren't you going to tell me what you're doing here?"

For a long moment, Trowa stared down at her, trying to dissect her intentions. She sat primly, hands cradling her knees, accepting his scrutiny openly, without shame. He wondered if he could trust her; she had played both sides of the war last time; but then – so had he; her motives now were as impenetrable as they were then. Coming to a decision, he sat opposite her. "Quatre asked me to look after you. He thought you might be in danger." He reached into his pocket and pulled out Ralph's cell phone, opening the latest message. "Does this mean anything to you?"

Dorothy held it cautiously, brow creased as she looked at the screen. "Yggdrasil? Is that how it's even pronounced? No. Is it supposed to?"

"I think it's a code. A kill order."

"You think Romefeller sent this as a signal for Mr. Kurt?"

"Yes." His eyes narrowed. "What are you hiding? Why does Romefeller want you assassinated?"

"I know too much," she smiled sardonically, "but not enough." Dorothy dropped her hands into her lap, her knuckles white from clutching the phone, her only concession that she felt anything but unassailable calm. "I bargained with Sylvia Noventa to delay the announcement of your identities until the Economic Forum. I thought that would afford you the most time – and protection. In return, I agreed to go on camera."

"I see."

"This morning, she asked me to testify for the prosecution – for when the ESUN charges all of you with war crimes. I refused."

"Sylvia Noventa," he murmured. "Field Marshall Noventa's granddaughter."

"Yes," she shifted in surprise, "how did you know?"

"Heero killed her grandfather. I was with him ten years ago when he offered his life in penance."

"That's interesting. It explains some things," she breathed, leaning forward, slate blue eyes narrowed in thought.

"Like what?"

"Like why she hates all of you so much. Why she won't stop until she destroys every last hero and every last shred of the heroic in man."

"Is all of this her handiwork?"

"No. She doesn't have that much power. I think Romefeller's bankrolling her. And if Mr. Kurt's words can be trusted, then that means they're ready to start moving out in the open."

"I believe him." Trowa shook his head. "I've never seen him that desperate. It's likely they've taken Chris Marley – his wife hostage."

"The police still haven't found him?"

"Ralph probably had an escape vehicle waiting. If they haven't found him by now, then he's gone. He's too well-trained to leave a trail."

He was surprised when Dorothy suddenly reached over and curled her hand around his, spreading his fingers, gently placing the cell phone in his palm. Her nails scraped lightly against the back of his hand; the sensation radiated warmth up his arm and he held himself rigid. Suspended on the edge of her seat, curving upwards to meet his eyes, she asked: "How well do you know him?"

"We were raised by mercenaries." Trowa didn't know he was holding her hand until their fingers were laced and he found he didn't want to let go. He unconsciously traced the soft flesh of her wrist; he could smell lilacs where she must have dabbed her perfume. His tone was even, neutral, betraying none of his thoughts: "I met him after the Alliance destroyed his home. He and Chris became obsessed with revenge. After the first Eve War, they were deceived by the remnants of White Fang into trying to steal our Gundams. Today was the first time I've seen him in ten years."

"It's strange that Romefeller would target someone like him. He doesn't fit the profile of a Foundation assassin. Desperation rarely breeds caution – or discretion. I wonder if it's because they knew you were acquainted," she said.

"I wouldn't know. I don't exactly run in Romefeller circles."

Dorothy smiled appreciatively. "No, I suppose not. So tell me. Where are we going?" Carefully tugging her hand out of his loose hold, she gestured at the cabin magnanimously. "My jet is at your disposal."

"Seychelles. That's where the Maganac Corps is hiding Quatre." Trowa saw her start at Quatre's name, an inscrutable expression on her face.

"Is he…all right?" Dorothy tensed. "Was he hurt in the attack on Larochette?"

"He was shot. The bullet grazed his head. He has a concussion, but he'll live."

Her shoulders slumped involuntarily in relief. She laughed. "You Gundam pilots really are indestructible."

"It's a curse," he agreed. When she stood to inform the pilot of their new destination, Trowa let out the breath he wasn't aware of holding, wondering why Quatre's well-being mattered so much to her. His fingers flexed involuntarily as he tried to ignore the pressure in his chest and the sensation he could still feel of her hand in his.

* * *

-

_1_Weyridge Isle, an island in the British Isles off the shores of Ireland, is the ancestral home of the Marquises of Weyridge. Marquis Weyridge is Relena's grandfather through her adoptive mother, and Peter's older sister, Eleanor. Even though they're the same age, Peter is technically Relena's uncle.

_2_Spanish for: "Thank you very much, Josef. Don't worry about the luggage. You may leave."

_3_In Blind Target, Commander Sogran is the leader of what remains of White Fang, who deceives his followers into believing he wants the Gundams to keep the peace. In reality, he is in cahoots with the CEO of Century Discover Corporation, Romefeller's weapons supplier, to steal the Gundams in order to start a new war and manufacture mass-produced Gundams.

_4_Sebastian Langdon is the Romefeller Foundation's chairman. Lucien Reinard, formerly a provincial governor, is the frontrunner to be nominated as Romefeller's presidential candidate. The Kirsanov family is prominent in the Foundation: Russian Count Arkady (62) revived Romefeller postwar, his oldest son Alexey died in battle, Stepan (33) is the party's secretary, Andrey (30) is a legal scholar and Marya (27) runs ESAID, Romefeller's foreign aid arm.

_5_Introduced in Blind Target, Ralph Kurt and Chris Marley were orphaned when the Alliance attacked their colony in the L3 cluster. Since then, they've hated the Earth and joined the White Fang to get revenge. After Sogran's true colors were revealed, Ralph and Chris finally left the battlefield behind to make a new home for themselves.

-

* * *

A/N- A big thank you to my beta Shadow Chaser for being my second eyes on this sprawling story of mine. And Trowa's back! Ralph and Chris, too? The plot thickens! My plan is to include the entire cast of GW eventually. This chapter turned out too long again so I had to split it in two. Sorry for the delay! Real life (read: school and finals) became overwhelming for a while. To make up for lost time, I'll update with part two of chapter three next week and chapter four the week after that. By the way, 'Yggdrasil' is pronounced eh-gg instead of 'egg' so it's eh-gg-druh-sill.


	14. Only to a Certain Point, Part II

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

Some parts are taken from a conversation between Dominique Francon and Howard Roark in The Fountainhead.

* * *

_Choosers of the Slain_ III:

**Only to a Certain Point, Part II**

by Terra

* * *

Lucrezia Noin admired the simplicity of the Maganac compound – dozens of whitewashed single-story buildings dotting a sloping sandy terrain that slowly curved into an airfield. She squinted against the sun, searching for a speck in the sky that flew too evenly to be a bird. A minute later, she spotted it, a steadily descending craft that approached with unmistakable purpose. When it came fully into view, the Catalonia coat-of-arms caught her eye and she smiled in remembrance. The vanity of aristocrats never failed to amuse her. It was oddly comforting to realize that very little had changed in the place she once called home.

It had been nine years since she last stood on Terran soil, ground that didn't break from the slightest pressure, wasn't flung away by the faintest breeze. She dug her boot into the soft sand-encrusted ground, amused when a string of ants bubbled to the surface, swarming over her boot. Noin marveled that so much life teemed in the sand. Her years off-planet had taught her to appreciate the presence of life – any life at all. She began walking towards the airfield; she wanted to be first to talk to the woman who had betrayed them; she knew Zechs would be far less forgiving.

She was standing in wait when the door slid open and Dorothy Catalonia stepped out, her long blond hair whipping around in the wind. Noin was pleased to see her shocked expression when their eyes met; it was reassuring to know that she could still surprise a noblewoman. Shielding her eyes from the harsh sunlight reflecting off her jet, Dorothy called out: "Miss Noin?"

"We have to talk," she replied.

"Yes…of course." Dorothy descended the ramp, her shoulders squared defiantly.

Behind her, a tall brunet man emerged, standing immobile for a second, surveying the vicinity with narrowed eyes before grabbing the railing and vaulting over the side, landing without a sound besides her. Noin saw the muscles of his arms clench in readiness, his body coiled with the potential for rapid motion – restrained when he identified her. "Trowa Barton," she said. "It's been a while."

He nodded. "I didn't know you were here. You came with Zechs Merquise?"

"It saved fuel," she answered, smiling.

"How is Quatre?"

"He's recovering over there," she pointed at a nondescript structure in the distance with a red cross on the roof, painted carelessly like an afterthought. "He's been waiting for you." Trowa glanced at the building and began moving in that direction; then he hesitated and turned back to Dorothy.

"It's all right. Go see him. Miss Noin and I have things to discuss," said Dorothy stiffly; her face carefully blank, scrutinizing the other woman, slate blue eyes probing her intent. Trowa nodded curtly and departed. When he was out of earshot, Dorothy asked: "Why are you here?"

Noin ignored the question. "I don't think so. Not until you answer my questions. Dorothy, how could you do this to them?"

"I don't have to explain myself to you," she said tightly. "The last time we spoke, we were in a graveyard and had something in common. You're a stranger to me now."_1_

"You're wrong." Noin shook her head. "We still have Treize…and Zechs. They still connect us."

"Am I? Both of them are dead to me. They have been for years. I've let go of the past."

"I don't believe you. Running away and letting go aren't the same thing."

"This from a woman who gave up everything to flee to Mars for a man?" accused Dorothy flatly, her fists unconsciously clenched. "Forgive me if I'm not overeager to take your advice."

"Is that what you think? That I threw away everything to be with Zechs?"

"Didn't you?"

"I teach now. Did you know that? I've always loved teaching. If I had stayed, I would never have become someone who could live without regrets. I would still be a Preventer, putting out fires. Living in the shadow of what might have been. I left, because my heart belonged somewhere else. Can you say you've ever had that kind of courage?"

Dorothy fell silent. Staring at the struggle in her face, it was discomfiting to know that she could make this woman lose her composure. She wondered what had happened to the arrogant, sly, manipulative Dorothy Catalonia of nine years ago. When Dorothy finally spoke, her voice was soft, curious: "What do you teach?"

"Astrobiology. We're always short astrobiologists and phycologists on Mars." Noin smiled. "Shockingly, there are never enough people who find algae glamorous. It's a pity we need it to breathe."

"And — Milliardo? Are the two of you happy?"

"He does what he loves – puts things together and takes them apart. He's a mechanical engineer, always 'mucking around' in the garage as his assistant puts it. We never have enough time to worry about happiness. I think that means we are…happy."

"I can't imagine Milliardo with grease stains and a wrench." The corners of Dorothy's eyes wrinkled in humor; her smile was shy, faltering. "It's rather like picturing Treize as a dockhand."

Watching her chilly demeanor thaw, Noin was forcefully reminded of her mercurial nature – and that Dorothy was never wholly trustworthy. The thought made her somber. "You haven't answered my question."

She stared unflinchingly into Noin's eyes. "What do you want to know? That I made a deal with the devil — to buy time? That I'll probably end up selling my soul to Romefeller? I didn't hack the Preventer mainframe and the choice to broadcast their identities was never mine to make"

"And if you had gone to the Preventers?"

"They would've aired the report in the time it took me to call them in," said Dorothy grimly.

The solemnity of her manner struck Noin as genuine. "I see. So you were trying to curb the damage after all. It's what Relena suspected, but I wanted confirmation from you." Whether this was the truth or not, it was telling that Trowa Barton seemed to believe her. _Dorothy was misguided_, Noin concluded, _but not a traitor_. "Zechs suspected Romefeller. So they're behind the security breach?"

"That's where the evidence points." Cocking her head in thought, Dorothy added: "Does Yggdrasil mean anything to you?"

"The Norse tree?" asked Noin, surprised, thrown by the abrupt change in subject. "Why do you want to know about Norse mythology?"

"Is that what it is? A mythological reference?"

"Yes. I'm not surprised you've never heard of it. Hardly anyone remembers the Norse myths now. Collecting obscure mythological trivia was my nonna's hobby. I heard all kinds of stories as a child. Yggdrasil means 'the terrible one's horse' or something to that effect. The Vikings believed that it was the World Tree."

"The World Tree?"

"Supposedly, it connects and protects all the worlds of gods and men. There's a giant serpent that lives on it – I can't recall the name – but it tries to eat the world." She added curiously: "How is this related to Romefeller?"_2_

"I'm not certain. I think it may be a code," she paused, staring absently at a point above Noin's head. Then without warning, she broke into laughter. "But speaking of your nonna, every time I see the baronessa, she interrogates me about you." Dorothy pursed her lips in imitation, her voice high-pitched: "Dove è la mia nipote? Eh?"_3_

Noin sighed, raking her hair in frustration. "I let her know I'm safe all the time. Fretting and kicking up fusses are her favorite pastime."

"If you don't mind my saying: I'm surprised that you're still with Milliardo. I expected him to drive you away years ago."

"It's no fairy tale living with him," she admitted, smiling self-consciously; compulsively fingering the Möebius strip pendant that hung around her neck, a gift made from the scraps of Epyon, "but I never wanted one. I'm safe with him."

"Well, that's certainly true. He's the worst-mannered prince I've ever met."

"It's part of his charm." At Dorothy's disbelieving expression, she added: "You'll have to take my word for it. I'm not too fond of aristocrats. With Zechs, I always know where I stand. No strings, no insecurities."

Noin saw Dorothy glance at her hand, noting the absence of a wedding band. "You're not married yet?"

"No. It's not something I ever envisioned for myself. And Zechs knows I don't need that kind of false security."

"Marriage is false security to you? How interesting," she mused. "It's the hardest thing in the world, isn't it? To do what we want. You're much braver than I am. Being with some man, getting drunk or becoming famous – those things, they're not even desires. They're what people do to escape from desires."

"It's a big responsibility to really want something," agreed Noin. "To claim a desire as your own, to go for it, knowing you can fail – and that there's no safety net. But love is like that."

Dorothy laughed. "To think that the two of you are such romantics. You know, I tried my hand at matchmaking once. I invited Relena and Heero Yuy to one of my houses during the P3 incident. I locked them in a room together for hours. I was so disappointed when nothing happened."_4_

"Were you expecting something?"

"No…not really. They're both rather obsessed with some imaginary duty to mankind. It got tiresome watching them dance around the issue. During the war, I thought Relena was interested, but when it was over, she never made a move."

Noin thought back to the few times she saw them together – in Antarctica, in the Sanc Kingdom, on _Peacemillion_. She remembered the way Heero looked Relena, like she was something incomprehensible: an easy target with too-fallible flesh and blood, but who never retreated; who was uncompromising and young – too young – to shoulder her burdens. Relena made him defensive, closed when they were together, vulnerable when he thought no one was looking. "Maybe he wasn't who she thought he was. A hero's glamour wears off eventually," she suggested.

"A plausible theory, but I don't think so. Did you know he's an architect now? Relena told me the first thing he ever built was a house for her. It's a strange kind of foreplay they have." She added as an afterthought: "He has talent, which he wastes on fools who reject his best for inferior imitations of other tasteless copies. The Devolution movement," she said scornfully, "is crippling art. It's the specter corroding human ingenuity so slowly and surely that no one notices. He was lucky to land the Winner Tower contract on L1."

"Good. I don't know anything about art, but I can't think of anyone who deserves a shot at an uneventful civilian life more than him." Noin shrugged. "Relena's life is probably too public for Heero. And the world isn't ready for her to retire. You and I both know she would never let her duty take a backseat to feelings which," she added, "we don't know she has."

"Perhaps," conceded Dorothy. Then she cast a sly glance at Noin. "Satisfy my curiosity — did you really hold yourself back at Lake Victoria? So Milliardo would be ranked first?"

"All these years and people still gossip about us? It's like going to a ten-year school reunion and finding out your friends still remember that time you were caught cheating."

"I don't know about that. Remember how Milliardo tried to destroy the Earth?" she teased. "That tends to win you notoriety and a footnote in the history books. So?"

"If anyone else asks, I will deny this to high heaven…but I may - may," emphasized Noin sternly, "have fudged a few answers here and there. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Dorothy laughed. It rang out sweet and clear, unrestrained by propriety or disdain; her shoulders shook and she threw her head back, her delight tumbling out freely as if she might never laugh again.

-

The last time Quatre had seen Trowa in person, it was the fifth anniversary of the end of the Eve Wars. When he suddenly walked into his sickroom, Quatre was astonished at how little the passage of time had changed his friend. Nothing was altered about his appearance. He stood with quiet intensity, a gentle smile on his face. For a tall man with broad shoulders, it was intriguing how easily Trowa was able to hide, to assimilate into a group, like a chameleon everyone saw, but nobody remembered. Trowa strode toward him lithely, his footfalls silent and predatory; his startling green eyes – Quatre had forgotten how vivid they were – swept the length of the room, over his form on the bed. "Hello, Quatre," he said.

"Trowa," Quatre smiled, sitting up, leaning against the headboard, "I wasn't expecting you for a few days."

"I know. But Romefeller made a move against Dorothy."

"What kind of move?"

"They sent a hitman after her, but thanks to your warning, I got there in time."

"She's not hurt?"

"No," Trowa smiled, crossing his arms, leaning against the bedpost, "she handles a gun like a pro."

"Not the most accommodating damsel-in-distress, I take it?"

"Damsel?" he snorted. "Perish the thought."

"Is the hitman in police custody?"

"No. It – it was Ralph who tried to assassinate her. He escaped when the locals got to the scene."

"Ralph Kurt?" asked Quatre, astonished. "He's working for the Foundation now?"

"No. It seems like they may be forcing him to act. He claims they've taken his wife hostage."

Quatre surmised: "And they want him to take the fall afterwards. He's not affiliated with them. It'll blur their footprints if the Preventers think he's acting on his own."

"Dorothy believes Sylvia Noventa's responsible – that Ralph was acting on her orders."

"You don't?"

"If she is," Trowa shook his head, "I don't understand her motives."

"If we're tried or imprisoned in a big public spectacle and she moves against us, she may be hoping to gain in standing in Parliament. If Zechs is right and Romefeller has a hand in the political conflict on Mars, then they're probably intending to seize control of the ESUN in the chaos."

"That's a lot of 'ifs,' Quatre."

"It's all we can do at this point – speculate and make educated guesses."

"How does Dorothy fit into all this? Can we trust her? My instinct is to believe she's not an enemy," Trowa looked away, his eyes narrowed in thought, "but I can't be sure why."

"I didn't know the two of you knew each other," said Quatre, glancing at him speculatively, a question in his clear blue eyes.

"We don't. Cathy and I ran into her on our short-lived tour of Earth."

Quatre placed his hand over his heart. He said plainly, "You don't have to second-guess Dorothy's intentions. Whatever she may do, she's not our enemy. I know. I can feel it." When Trowa still refused to meet his eyes, he added: "How is Catherine?"

"Safe for now. I set up a safe house for her in the Spanish countryside. It's remote, away from people. Unfortunately, there's nothing more I can do to protect the circus; I've given everyone a paid leave."

"If you want, I could—"

"No. Cathy's better off where she is," he smiled bitterly, "with her vintage wines and vineyards. She can pretend that she's still on vacation – that we aren't on the brink of another war."

"Trowa, when this is over, let's not wait another five years to see each other again."

"Yes, it's been too long," he agreed. "You know, I've wondered from time to time. Why didn't we keep in touch?"

"We were never in the same time zone for one. But — that's not the real reason. I don't think any of us expected to live to see the world after war. It's disillusioning."

Trowa was silent for a long contemplative moment. Then he confessed: "Quatre, I've been living like a ghost. I spend most of my days haunting my sister like a spirit that can't move on."

"I know."

"Is that why? You wanted me to live my own life?"

"In part," answered Quatre, "and because I also needed time."

"To come to terms with surviving?"

"Yes."

"And have you? Come to terms?"

"I don't know. Most days, my answer would be yes — but hearing Zechs's report brought me back ten years; sitting in this room looking at him, it felt like only yesterday when the Colonies renounced us."

"What did he say?"

Quatre clenched his fist against the flat sheet, wrinkling his bedspread, taut streaks radiating from his hand. "The situation on Mars is falling apart much faster than I anticipated. He expects them to declare their independence soon."

He watched Trowa straighten; walk over to his bedside, alertness in his every movement. He said: "I can hijack a supply barge and be there in less than a week."

"No. It's too dangerous. Even a hint that you're onboard and they'll blow you out of the sky. Besides, killing Secessionists will only add fervor to their cause. I don't want to make any more martyrs."

"Then what are you thinking?"

"I'm going to turn myself over to Preventer protective custody. The ESUN will charge me with war crimes," his voice became tighter, more controlled, "and crimes against humanity and whatever else they can dig up from the law books. Either way, we play into Romefeller's hands — but this way, I have some control over the outcome."

Trowa's face shuttered, carefully blank; only the hesitation in his words belied his feelings. "They'll try – nothing can stop them from going for the death penalty."

Quatre replied: "Let them. Either I die by their hand or in fighting another war when Mars secedes."

"When do you plan on turning yourself in?"

"Tomorrow. After I consult a legal expert and make clear to Une my intentions." Quatre smiled softly before reaching under his bed and pulling out a slim black case. He held it out to his old friend. "Tonight is my last night as a free man. I'd like to spend it with good friends and good music."

Trowa handled the case delicately and ran his fingers along the cool silver clasps; he released the catches and lifted the lid to see a flute, gleaming in the sliver of sunlight streaming from the gap in the curtains. "This isn't the same one?"

"It is," he confirmed. "We never finished our duet, remember? After you left, I stowed it away in a safe place. I knew you'd be back someday. But I didn't have a chance to give it to you until now. The timing never felt right."

"And now?"

"The timing's right."

Trowa lifted the flute to his mouth.

-

She spent the next three hours walking aimlessly around the compound. She knew Trowa had gone to see Quatre and that she wasn't welcome so long as he was there. Dorothy was greeted warily by the men of the Maganac Corps; they noticed her leather boots and expensive clothes and looked away in disgust, a few muttering under their breath. The women and children watched her openly, some with envy, most with curiosity. But they held their children back from approaching her. She was walking down the path to the makeshift hospital when she saw Milliardo Peacecraft – or was it Zechs Merquise now? – leaning against the wire fence, arms crossed, his hard blue eyes glinting in the sun.

Dorothy was faintly astonished to see that the long locks which had made him infamous, his trademark, were gone. He was now hard lines and ruggedness; his face was thin, rough; she couldn't see a hint of the aristocrat; the untamed Martian frontier had worn away his last veneer of civilization. Watching him watch her, she realized that this man was not the boy who had shoved her into a fountain when she tore off his mask; he was not the soldier who had followed Treize faithfully; he was not a disillusioned leader who had sneered at her moment of weakness. He was a stranger. She said: "I thought you were dead, Milliardo."

"You thought — or you hoped?"

"What do you want?"

"What's your game, Dorothy?" he responded sharply.

"Noin's already vetted me." She raised her hands, palms forward. "Not a traitor."

"She doesn't know the things you've done."

"And you do?" she asked derisively.

"I know the kind of guardian Dermail was. I know that you've spent the last ten years making a fool of yourself. So I'll ask again: what are you playing at?"

At the mention of the Duke, she tensed. "If I am playing any games, they're over your head."

Zechs stood, his posture taut, and crossed the last few meters separating them. His voice rumbled deeper with every step. "I won't let you do anything to sabotage Relena's chances at the presidency – or Quatre's odds at a fair trial."

"You mistake me completely," she refused to look away as he came closer, too close, his proximity trapping her into defiance, "nothing would make me happier than for Relena to win the election. But no matter what I do, Quatre won't have a fair trial — you know better than that. Don't make threats you can't begin to understand."

"What don't I understand, Dorothy? Explain it to me."

"I am not your enemy. I don't know how to say this any simpler. You've never trusted me. You probably never will. Frankly, I don't care about your opinion, Milliardo," she said with narrowed eyes, "we're both cowards and we've both bloodied our hands for a mistake. You do not have the higher moral ground. Make whatever judgments you'd like, but I won't stand by and let you – especially you – slander my name."

Zechs laughed. "That's more like it. You've been wandering around here like a lost waif. I was wondering where Dorothy Catalonia had gone."

"You…" she faltered, "you said those things just to bait me?"

His hard expression melted into an ironic smile. He said, "Have a safe trip, Dorothy," before turning away. Zechs walked down the dusty road, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

"I won't forget this, Milliardo," she called to his retreating figure, a blurry shadow in the sunset. He didn't turn around. She saw him raise his arm in farewell. "I'll be damned," she said softly.

-

His room was half dark, any sunlight streaming in muffled by the drapes. The dimness was comfortable; it lessened his new sensitivity to light and noise, another unwanted symptom of his concussion. Quatre did not feel the minutes passing. Since Trowa left, he had lost all meaning of time; he was waiting for Dorothy to come to him; not impatiently, because her coming was inevitable; but he was aware of a small thrill of anticipation that ran through him every time he heard footsteps in the outside hall. He closed his eyes.

He remembered the light flutter of her hands on his face. He smelled the dankness of an ancient library, felt the smooth glass edges of chess pieces in his hands. He saw her in front of him, lips parted, kneeling in submission, but her face was incapable of submitting. When she touched him, he tasted her confusion, her resistance to him; she was afraid of what he knew, but wanted him to know it. When he thought of Dorothy, it was instinctively, like thinking about moving his hand or taking a step. Sometimes, he woke and wanted her with a violence that he hadn't felt since the war. He recalled that she was beautiful last.

When he heard the knock at the door, he said: "Come in," without rising.

Dorothy came in. She entered as if she had walked in countless times, without any excess of movement, her strides precise. She shut the door behind her. She wore a long black coat, buttoned all the way to the white flesh of her throat, her long blond hair swept back with a simple black headband. He sat looking at her. She waited to see the derisive smile that would dismiss her or the words that would acknowledge her. When a dismissal didn't come, she slowly unbuckled her coat, and released each button in a violent jerk that was not angry, but familiar as if this was a show she had performed for him many times.

She pulled off her coat, hanging it on the metal frame at the foot of his bed. She waited, her face defenseless and humble. She said: "One of your men called me a Romefeller harlot."

"They're not my men. Not anymore."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"What are you, Dorothy?" he asked.

"I see," she laughed, "well, no matter. That will make this easier." She added: "You're not surprised to see me."

"I expected you tonight." Quatre watched her with curious detachment. "What do you want?"

She replied, "You know what I want," her voice heavy and flat.

"Yes. But I want to hear you say it. All of it."

"If you wish. I want to sleep with you. Now. Tonight. I want your naked body, your skin, your mouth, your hands. I want you – like this and not hysterical with desire – but coldly and consciously. Without dignity and without regrets. I have no self-respect to bargain with, so I can tell you this without shame. I want you like I have never wanted any man, like an animal – or a whore."

Dorothy did not avoid his eyes as she spoke. She stood without moving, her feet in heeled boots planted apart, her shoulders thrown back, her arms hanging straight at her sides. She looked impersonal, untouched by the words she pronounced. "I've told you before – I hate you. I wanted to save you from the world's defilement, but I couldn't. I weakened. And for what? Only to delay the inevitable. I will fight you and destroy you. I'm telling you this as calmly as I told you I'm a begging animal. I swore to tear every chance you have away from you. I wanted to hurt you through the only thing that can hurt you. It's what I did two days ago, today – and it's why I want to sleep with you tonight."

"You didn't hurt me."

"Maybe not. But I'll try again. I'll do it until I succeed. I'll come to you whenever I've beaten you and I'll let you own me. I want to be owned, not by a lover, but by an adversary who will destroy my victory over him. That's what I want from you, Quatre. That's what I am. You wanted to hear it all. You've heard it. What do you have to say to me?"

"Come here."

She walked mechanically to his bedside, two red spots swelling in her cheeks, her shallow breaths audible in the silence. Swaying to a stop inches away from him, she knelt on the ground, so that he could look down on her; she spread her palms on his bedspread, careful not to touch him. Quatre looked at her, holding himself still, knowing that what she offered him was torture and that this also was torture. He reached for her, and when he held her, her arms rose willingly and she felt the curves of his body imprinted into the skin on the inside of her arm – his ribs, his arms, his back, his shoulder blade under her fingers. The thrumming of his steady heartbeat skipped – just once – when they touched.

He crushed her mouth to his in a surrender more violent than her struggle had been. She shivered from the sensation of his hands descended slowly down her spine; his lips were warm, his heat flushing through her until the restlessness pooling in her limbs became unbearable; she moaned from a sudden blossoming ache. She felt every line of his body as he cradled her head, bending her back until her entire weight was suspended in his arms. He forced her mouth open, his tongue stealing the breath from her lungs; she didn't notice when Quatre lifted her onto the bed, falling over her until she was suffocating in his lips, the sting of teeth, the hand clenching her neck, the hard angles of his body.

She arched into him. He tolerated it for a scorching moment; then abruptly, he was gone; and Dorothy had never felt so cold as she did then, bereft of his weight, his warmth. Quatre sat up, turned away from her. "You're lovely, Dorothy."

"Don't."

"You're lovely."

"Then why—?"

"You came tonight out of need – and fear. You don't think we'll see each other again."

"…Yes."

"You still want to destroy me."

"Quatre—"

He turned to look at her. "Do you think I would want you if you didn't?"

"Is this – is this about Layla?"

"No. She's gone. I killed her brother."

"You loved her?"

"Yes."

"I see." Dorothy rose, shifting her legs over the side of the bed, started to leave when his arm wrapped around her shoulders, restrained her, pushing her against his chest; she felt his breath on her cheek. He whispered: "You want to hear that again? Part of it? I want you, Dorothy. I want you. I want you."

"I…" she stopped, the words caught in her throat.

"No," he said. "Not yet. You won't say that yet. Go to sleep."

"Here? With you?"

"Here. With me. I'll fix breakfast for you in the morning. Did you know that I fix my own breakfast? You'll like seeing that. Like me drilling into Heero's building."

She could not stop herself from asking: "Until — when?"

"Dorothy, what you're thinking is much worse than the truth. It doesn't matter to me if the public slanders me, if their justice executes me. Maybe it hurts so much that I don't even know I'm hurt. But I don't think so. If you want to carry my pain, don't carry more than I do. I'm not capable of suffering completely. Not since they killed my father – and Zero showed me the truth. The pain only goes down to a certain point, and then it stops. As long as there is that untouched point, it's not really pain. Until you can accept that."

She opened her mouth to protest. He said: "This – tonight will hurt you more than it will hurt me. I won't be the instrument of your punishment. I won't let you whore yourself as penance. Not even if you think you need it. Tomorrow, you'll go and think about destroying me. Good night, Dorothy."

* * *

-

_1_In Episode 49, Dorothy and Noin meet at Treize and Zechs's graves. They've seen each other there often but Dorothy tells her that this is the last time. She's moving on.

_2_The serpent that will eat the World Tree, jeopardizing the survival of all the realms, is known as Nidhogg. In Norse mythology, it is a serpent that constantly bickers with the eagle at the top of the tree and which sustains itself by feeding on corpses.

_3_Italian for: "Where is my granddaughter?" _Nonna_ is "grandmother" in Italian. As a baroness, Noin is Italian nobility.

_4_In Battlefield of Pacifists, the Perfect Peace People (P3, supposed pacifists who want the Gundams destroyed) and the remnants of OZ (commanded by Broden) tried to find Vulkanus. It's a Mobile Doll factory that Chief Engineer Tsuberov designed and Duke Dermail hid in Outer Space. Heero and Relena stop at Dorothy's estate to ask her help in locating it. She offers them the use of her computer system and gives them the first clue to Vulkanus's coordinates.

-

* * *

A/N- Thanks to the wonderful Shadow Chaser for looking over this chapter with blazing speed. And finally! I've been dying to write that scene between Quatre and Dorothy since I first started this story. But I had to keep putting it off to develop the plot. But it's here at last!


	15. Against All Things Ending

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

Some parts of this chapter are taken from a conversation about Howard Roark's buildings in The Fountainhead.

* * *

_Choosers of the Slain _IV:

**Against All Things Ending**

by Terra

* * *

The war waged among the board of directors at Winner Enterprises Interspatial was fierce. If lost arguments were corpses, then the battlefield was littered with bloody bodies. Nearly everyone had protested Mr. Winner's decision to hire Heero Yuy to design Winner Tower on L1 – but on this subject, not one person could sway the company's chief executive officer. One board member said: "I don't like Yuy's face. He doesn't look right."

Another answered, "I know what you mean. He's the kind that don't fit in. He's not a regular fellow."

Quatre asked: "What's a regular fellow?"

"Hell, you know what I mean . . . regular."

"There is nothing regular about human enterprise," he responded. "Regular people didn't brave the final frontier of space and sweat and bleed and die to create the Colonies. Regular people didn't discover the physics required to build skyscrapers and they didn't design the first ones. I'm not building a monument to human mediocrity."

His words were met with awkward silence and darting, furtive glances between the board members; those who resented his leadership bit their tongues at the presumptions of a man young enough to be their sons; those who did not felt a welling sense of shame – these feelings became anger when Quatre looked each of them in the eye, direct, unwavering, daring them to refute him. They could not. "I see," said Quatre. The project was green-lit.

Two months before Heero's reputation changed from radical incompetent to indiscriminate terrorist, he began the construction of Winner Tower. In those weeks, Heero seldom slept more than three hours a night. There was a sharp efficiency in his movements, a concentrated frenzy that required a constant outlet; even the furrow in his brow contributed to the intensity that traveled down his arm to the hand that drew unerringly. He made alterations to the blueprints with ease as the workers encountered setbacks; he was the conduit through which the building adapted; he became more than the Tower's designer – it was an extension of him.

On the twenty-fourth of October, work was stopped on the construction of Winner Tower. The workers on site watching the ESN broadcast were stunned; they climbed down titanium girders and ran out on the street frantically dialing police and press. Their boss was a Gundam pilot – an indiscriminate killer, some said. The next morning, Dorothy Catalonia wrote in her _Society_ column: "The Unfinished Symphony on L1," and the nickname was repeated. Strangers noticed the skeleton of an expensive building on an important street, protruding into the sky without walls or windows. When they asked what it was, people who had never heard of Heero or of the story behind the building snickered and answered: "Oh, that's the Unfinished Symphony."

Late at night before the breaking news story that would dismantle the civilian life he had made for himself, Heero stood across the street, looking at the black, dead shape left bare among the glowing structures of the city's skyline. His hands moved compulsively, adding layers of glass and concrete and metal girders, but the instinctive completing motion met only air. He forced himself to walk through the building one last time. Then he smiled, his eyes closed, and he walked away. He made himself forget Winner Tower. He left for Germany with the familiar thrum of purpose pulsing in his veins. It was wartime again.

The city of Bremen had a long, illustrious history elevated by its association with the great conqueror Charlemagne. It horded its independence fiercely, the habit of decades as a city-state. It was in Germany's oldest port city that the first aristocrats and royals gathered to forge an alliance that would become the Romefeller Foundation. In a world losing its respect for tradition, where borders melted and people connected beyond culture and origin, the leaders of a dying era banded for one last stand against modernity. A hundred years later, the Foundation's headquarters still rested behind the hallowed Gothic façade of the Bremen Town Hall.

Standing in the marketplace gazing up at the solemn structure, careful to keep moving with the milling crowds of tourists, Heero recalled that the Town Hall had been built in the Weser Renaissance style of the 17th century – a trivial fact school had drummed into him. The Town Hall was famed for its ancient wine cellar, the Ratskeller. He focused on it; as a tourist site, it would be the least-secured part of the building. He noted the guards stationed at the doors and patrolling the balconies. He would need a uniform and identification and for that, he needed the shift of a guard he had been tailing for two days to end. His eyes narrowed as he spied Benedikt Gärtner exit through a side door, his uniform bulging out of the messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

Heero followed him through the winding, cobbled streets of the marketplace until he walked into a pub – the same one he visited every day after work for hours. Heero entered and strode past his hunched over form on the bar. He sat at the other end of the counter. "Fassbier," he ordered. He nursed his draught beer for a few minutes before paying and stepping into the restroom. He dropped his bag on the floor and waited by the door. A few minutes later, it swung open and Benedikt stumbled in. Heero slammed him against the wall, twisting one arm behind his back. He kicked the door closed and locked his arm around Benedikt's neck. He clamped down hard and held his thrashing body still; Benedikt clawed wildly, his eyes wide with fear.

Gnashing his teeth, Benedikt grappled for the gun clipped to his belt. Heero released the arm he had pinned to crush his other wrist, forcing him to drop it. It clattered harmlessly to the ground. Suddenly, pain exploded in his jaw as Benedikt's freed arm smashed into his face. Grunting, Heero fell back a step; it was enough for the bulkier man to push violently from the wall, body-slamming Heero against the sinks. Once, twice, three times. Losing his grip, Heero stumbled backwards, catching a hold of the piping to steady himself. "Keine Ahnung, wer du bist . . . aber ich bring dich um, du Arschloch," slurred Benedikt, undoing his belt. He grinned viciously before pulling his leather belt loose, whipping the metal buckle against the nearest sink. It left a crack. "Mal sehen, wie dir das gefällt."1

Wiping the blood from his lip, Heero narrowed his eyes at this challenge. Crossing the bathroom in two steps, he caught the belt just above the buckle as it came down on his head and threw an uppercut that snapped Benedikt's head back. He lost hold of the belt as Heero grabbed his collar and slammed his face against the nearest stall door. It flew open and Benedikt fell to his knees inside. He shouted: "Wer bist du? Scheiße. Was willst du?"2

Heero wrapped his right arm against his neck, squeezing with all his strength, breathing hard at the effort of holding his victim still while standing. He could feel the guard's thudding heartbeat pounding against the inside of his arm; he ignored it. The other man bucked frantically, scraping against the arm choking him, fingers clawing for Heero's face. Gritting his teeth, Heero clenched the belt in his free hand for a heartbeat before wrenching Benedikt's chin up and hooking the belt underneath. Then Heero jerked back, planting one foot between his shoulder blades. Pulling the belt with him, he used his weight as leverage to throttle the flailing man. Benedikt made a gnashing sound with his teeth, the tremors in his body weakening.

Finally, he went limp. Heero cautiously released the stranglehold, leaning down to feel for a pulse. It was erratic, faint; the guard would be unconscious for a while. Heero immediately stripped and slipped on the uniform. He switched the contents of their bags before fishing the guard's wallet and ID cards out of his pocket. Then he handcuffed him to the metal piping of the toilet and closed the stall door behind him. After a cursory glance at the mirror, he exited the bathroom, heading for the back entrance. When he rejoined the crowds outside, he glanced down at the ID card, satisfied that the brown-haired Benedikt looked enough like him to pass a casual screening. It was the best he could do under the time constraints.

Heero returned to the Town Hall, swiping the card at the same side door he had seen Benedikt exit. The metal door screeched open and he entered a coolly lit hallway. Reaching into Benedikt's messenger bag, he retrieved his handheld, scrolling to the floor plan. Left, left, down and then right. Heero started walking. When he passed a group of a guards thundering down the hallway, he let his gaze sweep indifferently over them, nodding as if recognition. They passed without incident or scrutiny. Opening the door to the wine cellar, he felt a cold dankness on his face.

Quickly shutting the door behind him, he darted through the stacks and shelves of musty bottles until he found a computer terminal. He pulled out his laptop and hooked it to the terminal; it was only a registry of all the contents of the cellar, but it was connected to the closed network in the building; anyone inside could check if a bottle was in storage and reserve it before coming down to retrieve it. That opening was enough to give Heero access to the network. His fingers flew deftly over the keys, the programs he'd loaded into his computer handling most of the decryption. The anti-intruder protocol activated – but it was too late and the worms he set loose promptly shut it down.

A soft ping signaled that his backdoor into the system had worked. He was in. Heero accessed the security video files and began deleting the footage that had captured his entrance; he spliced together several frames to disguise the erasure. An incoming streaming connection caught his eye. Someone in the building was patching through a live feed from a camera outside the system. He clicked on the recording and found himself looking down from a sloping angle at a dark-haired man digging through the files on his desk. Heero was astonished when Quatre walked in and the man rose from behind his desk to shake his hand.

-

Quatre woke at dawn. He tensed at the soft noise of breaths being expelled. Then he remembered that he had asked Dorothy to stay. He looked over at her; she was still asleep, her fingers clutching the bedspread, her pale blond hair spread across the pillow; her face peaceful. There was a light breeze from a small part in the curtains that fluttered the silky strands. He savored the moment for a few heartbeats before carefully rising to his feet. Swallowing the painkillers set aside on the nightstand, he absently cradled his ribs – he only felt a dull throbbing pain now. Quatre cast one last glance at Dorothy's sleeping form, then closed the door softly behind him.

He walked across the hall into the small kitchenette. The room was barren except for a few appliances, two chairs and a table, a small vidphone on the edge. He sat down and dialed the emergency extension that would connect him directly to Une. It rang three times before Une's face flickered into view with an audible click. She appeared pale and haggard, dark circles staining the skin under her eyes; she looked at him grim, determined. "I wondered when you'd call," she said dryly, her brown eyes flitting across his face, resting briefly on the bandage. "The rumors of your demise at Larochette are greatly exaggerated."

"Despite their best efforts," he agreed.

"What do you need, Quatre?"

"I want to turn myself in."

Her lips pursed into a tight line. "I see."

"If I give the mobs a single target to vent their hatred, it will reduce the violence worldwide. They can all see me sitting in a cell handcuffed."

"That kind of appeasement won't work for long. They'll be demanding your execution before long."

"I know. I'm willing to risk it."

"Are you hoping for a trial?"

"If the ESUN wants to preserve its legitimacy in the eyes of the people, they'll have to try me or let the mobs lynch me. There's no other option."

"All right," she said wearily. "If you understand what you're asking, then I won't stand in your way. It'll be a peaceful surrender?"

"Yes. There are still a few loose ends I need to tie up, but after that, I'll let your agents take me in."

"Where?"

"Geneva. Outside the Palais des Nations."3

She nodded curtly. "Land at the Geneva base. I'll make the arrangements," she paused, "but be careful. With the political climate what it is, I may not be in power for long – and then you'll be at the mercy of whoever they appoint as my successor."

"I understand," Quatre acknowledged with a solemn smile. "Take care, Lady Une."

"You do the same," she said. Then the screen went blank.

"What's in Geneva?" asked Dorothy. He turned to face her; she stood in the doorway, glancing down at him curiously. Her expression gave no indication that she had heard his conversation, but Quatre knew from the rigid set of her shoulders that she was bracing herself for his answer.

"Andrey Kirsanov. He's an expert on the Geneva Conventions and comes recommended by my sister," he answered.

"Count Kirsanov's derelict son," she murmured.

"You know him?"

"No, but his falling out with the Count is infamous. It was over his brother's death, I believe." Dorothy glided past him, running her fingers along the edge of the table absently, before sitting down across from him. She rapped her knuckles on the table. "Alexey. That was his name. He was killed in action during the war and Andrey blamed his father for it. Romefeller politics at the time didn't allow the Count to refuse his son's desire to fight — not without losing all his credit with the upper echelons."

"My informants tell me Andrey's a stalwart pacifist."

"The Count, too." She drummed her fingers against the table in thought. "Not so, his other children. I remember Stepan was quite the war hawk. He supported the purely mechanized warfare my grandfather tried to perfect. Fortunately, he's not in any position of real power right now. Party secretary is mostly a symbolic position," she grimaced, "but he's the most irritatingly affable man you'll ever meet. Nothing fazes him. It's impossible to pin him down on any subject. The man's got a silver tongue, but he's so sincere about everything he says that you can't help believing him." She added: "His sister, though . . . she's worrisome."

"Marya Kirsanova?"

"Yes. I've met her a few times. She gave me the impression she holds Romefeller's purse strings. On paper, all the money going through her office is for development and aid – but I wouldn't be surprised if she funnels some of it for personal use. With her father as the venerated founder and her brother the party's mouthpiece, no one would dare accuse her of corruption."

"Zechs thinks she may be the Secessionists' benefactor. After she visited Mars, they became flush with credits and expanded their operations. She made it possible for them to mobilize their base; pushing through a bill declaring their intention to secede won't be too difficult."

"If you suspect the Kirsanovs," she asked slowly, "then why are you going to meet Andrey? Whatever you tell him, he could easily turn around and report back to Romefeller."

"He could. But what Romefeller wants is a trial – a bloody, public spectacle to distract the ESUN from the situation on Mars. If I don't turn myself in, then the violence will keep escalating. So long as the Preventers are spread too thinly to matter and the administration lets the economic crisis worsen, they'll get what they want."

"I'm going to testify," she said abruptly.

Quatre watched her body tremble at those words; her hands went slack on the table, unnaturally still. Her face was clean of fear, anticipation, expectation – she met his eyes calmly. "Don't do it for me," he told her.

"I won't be." Her smile was bittersweet. "I can't respect a man who wants to be protected, who needs my protection. I won't degrade myself, or you, with the presumption. I want to see how much pain I can take. I want to find that certain point you seem to think exists. I want to know how deep the pain has to run before I become impervious to it – or cripple myself trying."

"Dorothy . . ."

"No. Don't say anymore. Let's just be . . . like this." She glanced at the stove, her expression bemused: "What's for breakfast?"

Quatre enfolded her hands in his, brought them to his lips. "Anything you want," he said.

"Sausage," she responded, leaning back against the chair with careless, insolent elegance. Quatre laughed.

By noon, he had been waylaid by Rashid twice, each time calmly rebutting his protests. He had bid Commander Sadaul a solemn farewell and told Auda in no uncertain terms that had he not intervened in time, Quatre would be dead. Dorothy disappeared while a nurse changed his bandages; he thought he heard her jet taxi down the runway, the supersonic takeoff splitting the air with a roar; by the time the piercing sound reached him, she was already gone. He wondered if the next time they faced one another, it would be across the unbridgeable length of a courtroom or bulletproof glass separating her from him and a firing squad; but he had no regrets.

Quatre departed for Geneva in Zechs' plane. He made a layover in Rabat, Morocco and transferred onto a waiting Winner corporate jet stalling in a private airfield. He greased the palm of the lone air traffic controller and told the pilot, a former member of the Maganac Corps and a man he trusted, to enter Preventer airspace. It was early afternoon when he stepped onto the Geneva base tarmac. With Une's authorization disguising him as a special diplomatic envoy, he encountered no obstacles as he disembarked and hailed a car to take him to Palais des Nations. He was early for his appointment.

"Mr. Winner," announced the wavering voice of the secretary, darting furtive glances at him, holding the door ajar to Andrey Arkadyevich Kirsanov's office. The brown-haired man immersed in the papers on his desk looked up in surprise. He had a youthful face, startled blue eyes and thin, querulous lips. Andrey exclaimed: "I had no idea you'd be coming in person."

Quatre bowed formally. "You came highly recommended to me, your Excellency."

Andrey reddened, but his eyes were bright, pleased. "Please . . . call me just Andrey. Any relation of Talitha's is a friend of mine," he said hastily. "Please, have a seat."

Quatre shook his hand and sat down. "It's my understanding that you can help me with a legal defense. How soon do you think the ESUN will press charges?"

"Any day now," he shook his head, "it's a troublesome situation. I mean – well, not troublesome, far worse than that for you. I mean . . . what I'm trying to say is that — it's quite complicated and unprecedented," he amended hurriedly. "I've heard rumors that Hadrian Kaiser is fighting to be appointed the Prosecutor."

"The solicitor general," murmured Quatre.

"That's right. And I can tell you – the man's absolutely vicious. Hasn't got an ounce of mercy in him."

"From a legal standpoint, what's my status?"

"Well, it's tough to say." Andrey frowned, studying the ceiling with casual attention. "Generally, interstellar law and the Geneva Conventions apply to states at war. Under the original articles, you'd be classified as an unlawful combatant. As I understand it, you acted largely on your own?"

"If you mean did I ever act in the representative capacity of the Colonies — no, I did not. Any actions I took, any battles I fought with the Gundams – none of it was ever officially sanctioned by L4 or any of the Colonies."

"Then that's the heart of the problem. Had you been part of a militia or armed force, even tangentially related to a legitimate government, the ESUN would have no choice, but to recognize you as a lawful combatant. However, as it stands . . . ," he shrugged helplessly, "I've been trying to read up on your - your case, I suppose you could call it. All my research turned up very little information. All five of you were quite successful at remaining the Eve Wars' greatest secret."

"Our numbers were too few. Absolute secrecy became necessary. From the moment we landed, the Alliance and OZ hunted us ruthlessly."

"Yes, I see that. I'm afraid I don't know any way around the label of – of terrorist," Andrey's voice lowered to a hush, "since your tactics were unorthodox, to say the least. Civilian targets, ambushing military installations and assassinating government officials, engaging in guerilla warfare. Kaiser will use all of that as evidence that, well . . . that you committed war crimes. Considering the civilian death toll, he won't hesitate to charge you with committing crimes against humanity."

Quatre's eyes hardened. "We were trying to overthrow an entire regime."

"Yes, I know!" he reassured. "I'm one of the few Gundam sympathizers in this administration. The only strategy I can advise is making the case that you were a freedom fighter for the Colonies."

"One man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist."

"True. But in the end, you Gundam pilots fought for the Earth. You banded with us against the White Fang. You probably," he said eagerly, "my god, you probably saved billions of lives."

Quatre smiled self-deprecatingly. "And how many people know that? How many know how close the Earth was to extinction?"

"Not many," admitted Andrey. "The public is frothing at the bit right now, because the media's painted you as extremists. And as terrorists, who murdered indiscriminately and brought about the Eve Wars. I think the official death toll is over a hundred thousand. That's not easy to overlook."

"We were the symptoms of the disease – but it began long before us. OZ assassinated Heero Yuy and the Alliance systematically destroyed every pacifist stronghold in the Earth Sphere. We had no choice, but to rebel."

"And now, you just have to convince the thirteen judges of the Supreme Court of that."

-

Heero traced the video feed to an office on the top floor. Hacking into the terminal, he remote controlled the system to check for activity. Whoever planted the bug wasn't currently watching the feed; the computer was programmed to silently download the video and store it into a separate memory unit. He tried to access the database, narrowing his eyes when he realized that it wasn't connected to the rest of the mainframe, not even wirelessly. He returned to the window showing him the security footage and clicked on the cameras in the office. It was empty. He set the cameras on the floor to a loop before running a program to delete the digital footprints left by his forceful entry.

Satisfied, he disconnected his laptop. This called for a new plan. He would have to manually connect his laptop in order to break the encryptions sealing off the unit. Flipping open his handheld, Heero charted the safest route. The freight elevator outside the cellar was the nearest access point. His eyes roved over the dusty wine bottles. He selected the oldest vintages on the racks and loaded them into the small cart by the door. Wheeling it cautiously in front of him, he made his way to the freight elevator. He slid Benedikt's ID through the card reader and the doors creaked open, the tracks blunted by rust. He tensed as the metal cage clanged in its slow ascent.

On the top floor, Heero abandoned the cart. The hallway was vacant. At the end was Stepan Arkadyevich Kirsanov's office, the gold-plated placard on the door gleaming ostentatiously. Heero retrieved his handheld and pulled out the small jack, inserting it into the electronic panel; he ran the unlocking sequences until he was prompted for a fingerprint. His program recalled the last scanned print as he pressed his thumb against the touchpad. The lock clicked open. Inside, Heero ignored the computer humming on the desk. It was too obvious. He reached into his jacket pocket for his thermal-imaging glasses. He slipped them on and turned the knob on his watch.

His vision became gray, excepting several objects that pulsed red – the computer, the fish aquarium, the light strips lining the ceiling. He scanned the walls until his suspicions were confirmed. The eastern wall behind the fish tank blazed hottest. Heero felt along the edges, the tank, the Byzantine paintings spanning the wall; but he couldn't find the catch switch. He turned to the desk and focused on the computer. A few keystrokes later, he was logged in. He opened the activity log, searching for the most recent inputted commands. "Madonna" caught his eye and he swiveled to see a Russian icon on the wall depicting Mary and a baby Jesus. He reran the command.

With a soft whir, the aquarium sank into the wall and the hidden section of floor below it rose revealing another computer. Heero slotted a cable from his laptop into the terminal and dedicated all its computing power to infecting the system. Ten minutes later, his worm program bypassed the encrypted firewall and he had full access to all the files. He was canceling the recording of Quatre when he suddenly noticed that the cameras he had programmed to loop were functioning normally. It was taping the office, and the elevators and hallway, in real time; outside, a black-haired man rode up in the elevator. If he was Stepan Kirsanov, then Heero had only a couple minutes at most.

He called up the last accessed file. A dozen windows appeared. "Project Romulus," he read silently as he downloaded the entire file to his hard drive.4 His eyes flew from window to window – from financial records of credit transfers from ESAID to Mars to schematics of mining rovers to a chemical analysis of a compound called Aresium. He glanced at the security feed again and saw the man exit the elevator. Heero unplugged his laptop and logged off. The computer plunged back into its depression in the ground and the aquarium slid back out.

He had just enough time to email the stolen files to Duo and activate the self-destruct protocol that would fry his hard drive when the door opened. "Mr. Yuy," said Stepan Kirsanov pleasantly. "I thought I might find you here one day."

"Is that an admission of guilt?"

Stepan smiled, stretching his handsome face and crinkling the corners of his eyes. "How do you mean?"

"You breached the Preventer mainframe."

"Not personally," he said, lingering in the doorway. Then he let the door drift closed and moved past Heero to his desk. He sat down and glanced idly from the smoking laptop to his flickering screen. "It seems like we're overdue for a security upgrade," he commented.

Heero drew his gun and aimed for Stepan's head. He returned Heero's hard stare calmly, watching him with eyes that were a queer shade hazel, amused and pleased. "You'll pull that trigger someday, but it won't be today."

"Give me one good reason," he replied brusquely.

"It won't make any difference, for one. There are things that have been set in motion that will go on – with or without me. Killing me today would be pointless — and will only damage Mr. Winner's chances for a fair trial. You've noticed, of course, that the cameras on this floor are still running and streaming to another server. Shoot me and the video will find itself on every news channel in the Earth Sphere."

Heero didn't lower his weapon. "What are you after?"

Stepan's laughter was rich and roiling in genuine mirth. "You'll think I'm mocking you."

"Try me."

"All right." He laced his fingers together in front of him, training his murky gaze on Heero. "World peace," he said earnestly.

Narrowing his eyes, Heero turned off the safety with an audible click. "Try again."

"I told you. You don't believe me . . . but it's the truth." Stepan added contemplatively: "Men are brothers, you know, and they have a great instinct for brotherhood – except when they gather into groups. Then other instincts take hold. Like the need to differentiate, to identify one's in-groups and derogate the out-groups. It doesn't matter where or when; it's inevitable. Have you ever seen children squabbling in a playground? They'll categorize themselves for the most arbitrary reasons – and then they'll do almost anything to assert their superiority."

"What's your point?"

"Simply this: if we could learn to think less like individuals and more like human beings, brothers of one great race – think of the possibilities."

"Was that supposed to make sense?"

"No. I'm afraid you aren't ready to hear it yet," he replied regretfully.

Heero jerked back as he heard pounding footsteps in the hallway; he aimed his gun at the door. Stepan continued good-naturedly, "I'm a salesman, you know. A good one, but I have nothing to sell you. So we'll just say that you're going to walk out of here unharmed – and we'll let it go at that." When the door burst open and guards poured in, guns drawn, he ordered: "Lower your weapons. This man is my guest."

The guards shifted uneasily, parting hesitantly for Heero as he walked through the doorway. No one stopped him on his way out.

-

Quatre let the first Preventer agent handcuff him and the second push him into the backseat of the squad car. They never turned on the siren, but the urgency in every turn as they careened down the winding streets belied their anxiety. When they pulled to a stop, Une opened his door and said acerbically, "You just missed the announcement. The President declared a state of emergency . . . and there's a warrant out for your arrest."

"Just mine?"

"No, all of you. But so far, you're the only one in cuffs. I haven't seen Wufei since he released Dorothy and I'm assuming the rest are in hiding."

"They are," he confirmed. "So what now?"

"I do my civic duty and lock you up," Une answered sardonically.

Quatre followed her through the station, silently enduring the accusing stares and the scattered cheers, his face carefully blank. She led him into an interrogation room where a young woman, her face framed by soft blond hair pinned back, was already seated. She looked up when they entered and Quatre caught wide, mercurial blue eyes and a seductive mouth before she stood and held out her hand. "Mr. Winner, my name is Mideleine Une. I'll be representing you."

"Middie is my second cousin," explained Une. "Before you refuse, you should know she's a Judge Advocate."

"You're in the JAG Corps?" he asked, shaking her hand.5

"Yes." Middie resumed her seat, watching him curiously, taking his measure. "This is a military matter no matter how loudly Hadrian Kaiser insists that you're a civilian."

Une released the shackles around his wrist and he rubbed them absently. Une warned: "In here, the law makes me your enemy, Quatre. This is all I can do to help you. From now on, I'll have no freedom of action where you're concerned. Remember that." The door shut firmly behind her.

"This trial will ruin your career," he said.

Middie smiled, crossing her arms loosely on the ascetic metal table. "You let me worry about that, Mr. Winner. My first concern is your safety. My cousin assures me that you'll have your own cell – away from the other inmates. I can't stress enough that you're never to be alone with any of them."

"I'm a Gundam pilot. I'm not in here with them. They're in here with me," said Quatre.

She looked pleased. "All right then. I'll worry about the inmate left alone with you."

"Tell me something. Why are you helping me?"

"Do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

She leaned forward until he could feel her breath on his skin. "Need to know. Need to have all the answers."

"When it's possible," he answered.

She laughed. "I think I'm going to enjoy getting to know you, Mr. Winner. Think of me as your partner. Although . . . if we're going to be honest with each other – I'm the only thing standing between you and the gallows."

"If we're going to be honest with each other, you won't change the subject again."

Her wide-eyed stare was shrewd. "Was I?"

"I asked why you were helping me."

"If you must know — I'm on the cusp of twenty-six. I may be a rising star, but I'm only starting to make waves. I don't want to be just another face in a sea of attorneys. This is going to be the case of the century and I wouldn't miss it for anything. There . . . ," she spread her hands palms up on the table, "that's everything out in the open. Your turn now."

"I don't believe you, but I'll accept that answer at present. You should already know that you're defending a guilty man," he said. "But I don't intend to throw away my life."

"That's interesting. I've heard you're a righteous and moral man. You don't find that incompatible with the idea of cheating justice?"

"That depends on whose justice you mean."

"It's not incongruent with your sense of fairness?"

"No. Given the same choices, I would make them again. There are . . . some things I regret, but I can't and won't regret taking up arms to fight."

Middie threaded her fingers under her chin, cocking her head to the side in cool contemplation. "Good. The hopeless ones are my favorite clients."

-

Mariemaia traced the spines of the books stacked on Dorothy's bookshelf. She remembered her cousin once telling her that she never read again a book she loved. It hurt her too much to think about how many had desecrated the book before her and how many would mar its pages by reading after her. Glancing around Dorothy's bedroom, she noted that it was spacious, almost vacuous in its austerity; there was only a bed, a nightstand and a lone set of drawers. What struck Mariemaia most vividly was how unlived in it felt; the only personal touch was the painting Dorothy had won at auction – Brueghel's _Landscape of the Fall of Icarus_, hanging alone on the barren wall.

A soft cough caught her attention. Clarice knocked softly on the door before announcing: "Countess Marya Arkadyevna Kirsanova to see you, ma'am."6

"Me?" she asked, mildly discomfited. "Don't you mean Dorothy?"

"No, ma'am. She asked specifically for you."

She hesitated for a moment. "All right. Have her wait in the parlor."

"Yes, ma'am." Clarice's skirts rustled as she rushed to do the bidding of her mistress's beloved cousin.

Mariemaia entered the parlor a minute later. The red-haired woman sitting primly on the sofa smiled warmly, rose to her feet and clasped Mariemaia's hands in hers. "Lady Khushrenada, I have wanted to meet you since you were seven."

"Countess," she answered stiffly. "That's kind of you to say. What can I do for you?"

"Please. I shall always be Marya to my friends. Do I have your leave to dispense with meaningless, cumbersome titles?"

Trapped by decorum, Mariemaia replied simply: "Yes."

"My dear, I have some wonderful news for you . . . but I wonder if you've heard it already," said Marya, her large, expressive blue eyes lit with cunning.

"No, what is it?"

"My good friend Hadrian has finally charged that loathsome Quatre Winner with war crimes – or something liked that," she said dismissively, brushing its importance out of the air, "and I just heard on the news that the Preventers have him in custody!"

Mariemaia stiffened. "What made you think I would be happy to hear that?" she asked sharply.

"Well, darling . . . ," Marya looked endearingly confused, "they were your enemies during that conflict all those years ago, weren't they?"

"I was only a child then. I was taught to believe that was the case. I was wrong."

"But they were your father's enemies, too," protested Marya. "How can you just turn your back on him?"

"You knew my father?"

"Oh, yes. Who didn't? He was a great man. A true hero, not a mass murderer like those – those Gundam pilots," she finished disdainfully.

"Why are you here?"

"You know that I have only the greatest respect for you." Marya added triumphantly: "I've come to give you an opportunity to redeem your father's legacy."

She couldn't completely mask the anguish in her voice: "What?"

"It's not our function, as noblewomen, to be a fly swatter, but when a fly acquires delusions of grandeur, the best of us must stoop to do a little job of extermination, don't you think? There's been a great deal of talk lately about the illustrious Mr. Winner. He was entrusted with an extraordinary responsibility to the public – and what does he do? He commits the equivalent of spiritual embezzlement. To think that one of the best minds in the Colonies and an upstanding entrepreneur would be hiding such a dark secret. Imagine our trust being so misplaced!"

She clenched her fists. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Why everything, of course! The arrogance, the audacity, the defiance of such a man to stand against all of us and believe that he has the right to take any life he deems unworthy. He ought to prostrate himself before us, confess his sins and beg for forgiveness. It would be sacrilegious for those of us who can do something to simply sit back – and refuse to have any part in his trial."

"You want me to testify against him?" she demanded, outraged.

"Don't think of it that way if it bothers you, darling. You'll be upholding the will of the righteous and humble, protecting them against a megalomaniac who dares mock the people so insolently. Mariemaia, it's your duty to tell the world everything about Operation Meteor – all the atrocities the Colonies wanted to inflict on us."

"How do you . . . know about the original Operation Meteor?" she asked slowly.

"I have my ways. But surely you agree with me that it's simple decency, our Christian duty really, to let the world know the truth? If you don't come willingly," her voice became hard as steel, "Hadrian will have to subpoena you and drag your name through the mud again, if that's what it takes."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Heavens, no! Why should I have to when I know you'll help us?"

There was a heavy silence; it dragged for almost a minute. Mariemaia struggled to keep her composure while Marya merely looked on serenely. Finally, she said dully, "Yes. I'll do it."

-

Duo heard the beep on his phone, signaling a new message, a second before a loud crack rent the air and the ceramic pot beside him exploded into shards. Cursing, he fell into a crouch as a second bullet tore a hole through a tent to his left. The bazaar was packed with booths and shoppers and venders. The narrow street swelled with people screaming, scrambling to push each other out of their way as they broke into a run; he had enough time to register a man standing on the roof of the tallest building in the area when a third shot tore into his shoulder with deadly accuracy.

Gritting his teeth, he began shoving against the crowd, ignoring the burning sensation in his bleeding wound, fighting the mob to reach the sniper. He shoved his uninjured shoulder against the wooden door of the building like a battering ram. It caved in and he charged up the sloping stairs, gripping his gun tightly, winding around and around until he crashed through the gate onto the roof. Another bullet narrowly missed his head, carving a cut across his face. He dove out of the way as the man took aim again. Rolling to his feet, he fired twice rapidly in the assassin's direction.

The attacker threw the sniper rifle at Duo, who batted it out of the way. The rifle rattled on the ground, but Duo lost sight of the man for a second; he charged up and dropkicked Duo, the momentum of the movement jolting the gun out of his hand. Duo crouched to avoid a roundhouse kick and unclipped the pocketknife fastened to his ankle. He released the blade and swiped it against an incoming jab, slicing cleanly through the man's knuckles and he screamed. Duo dropped to his knees and sweep kicked his legs out from under him.

He slammed into the ground inches from Duo's gun. As the assassin fumbled for it, Duo flipped to his side and reached for the discarded rifle, clenching his teeth against the gushing pain in his arm. He caught the handle with his bloody hands and whirled around in time to pump the trigger at point-blank range. The attacker flinched as the bullet tore through his collarbone; with a yell, he fired shots uncontrollably as he staggered backwards. The backs of his knees hit the ledge and he fell screaming over the side, plunging to the pavement below.

Coughing, Duo stumbled down the stairs to the street, ignoring the gaping bystanders. He knelt down beside the body to root through his pockets. He found a phone and a wallet. The ID card said "Osman Yilmaz" and the last message on the phone was from an unknown number. The text simply read: "Yggdrasil." Duo pocketed the phone and hired a cab to the nearest hospital. After several hundred credits exchanged hands, the doctor sewed up his wound without question. Duo refused morphine; he needed to be alert in case any more assassins arrived, gunning for him.

Reclining against the cot in his single room, a rare luxury in the filled-over-capacity ward, he examined his own phone. He had received a bulky email from Heero before the attack. "Project Romulus," he muttered. "What the hell is this?"

Scanning through the files, he followed the bank statements linking Romefeller to the accounts of key members of the Secessionist movement on Mars. He paused, puzzled at the diagrams detailing new mining and prospecting equipment. Then his jaw clenched in realization; Romefeller was digging for something on Mars. Duo reached the last document entitled, "Aresium" – it described the chemical composition of a mineral. At the bottom, the page was incomplete, cut off at the end of a sentence that would've explained its uses.

But the purpose of the so-called Project Romulus seemed clear to Duo. Whatever Romefeller was after on Earth, it was connected to their operations on Mars. He switched his cell phone off and concentrated on breathing through the pain. He had fled all the way from Davos to Istanbul, but somewhere along the way, someone caught his trail. Duo didn't know what "Yggdrasil" meant, but he was willing to bet it was the handiwork of the same people who had exposed their identities. He was suddenly glad he had handed over the reins of command to Howard.

Without his special contracts with Winner Interspatial, canceled in the wake of his and Quatre's roles in the war, he wondered how long the Sweeper Group would last. After the war, he had worked in an L2 scrap yard for years, learning the menial and entrepreneurial aspects of the trade. He would be damned if he lost three years of relentless backbreaking work, because of the incorrigible greed of aristocrats. Duo had expanded the Sweepers from a loose group of petty scavengers into a conglomerate of scrap yards and space junkers, who cleaned up the dangerous debris in Earth's orbit – the remnants of dead satellites and a graveyard of broken mobile suits.

In nine years, he had never heard of Aresium – and his specialty was finding new uses for metal scraps. Whatever they were developing on Mars, it was somehow related to the impending interstellar war. Coming to a decision, he dialed by memory the special frequency that had once enabled five men piloting war machines to communicate.

Duo said: "Wufei, meet me on Mars."

* * *

-

1German for "I don't know who you are . . . but I'm going to kill you, you asshole." "Let's see how you like it."

2German for "Who the fuck are you? What do you want?"

3Palais des Nations is located in Geneva, Switzerland and is one of the headquarters of the ESUN government (the home of the United Nations in the real world).

4In Roman mythology, Romulus is one of twin sons of Mars, the god of war. He slew his brother, Remus, and founded the city of Rome.

5The JAG (Judge Advocate General) Corps is the special legal branch of the ESUN Armed Forces, which includes the intelligence agency, the Preventers. They represent those who have been court-martialed and must be tried under military law.

6In Russian nomenclature, everyone has a patronymic. In this case, Marya, Andrey and Stepan are all the children of Arkady and therefore, the men's is Arkadyevich and Marya's is Arkadyevna. Marya's surname (Kirsanova) is the feminized version of the family name (Kirsanov).

-

* * *

A/N- As promised, this is a long chapter with lots happening. And we finally meet the Kirsanovs! What did you think of them? Comments and constructive criticism would really be appreciated this chapter as things start steaming full speed ahead.

In the next part, the trial begins with opening statements, surprise witnesses and Relena pays Quatre a visit in jail. The next chapter will be entitled: **Cynosure**.

Valhalla will next update on Tuesday, April 28th.


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